Constant Angel
by PaperbackWriter318
Summary: When Christine left Erik, he made a vow that never again would music touch his ears. When a young chorus girl accidentally stumbles across his lair, Erik discovers that he needs her just as much as she needs him. He had spent a long time being an Angel of Music. Now he needed one. rated T because I'm paranoid.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, all! New fandom! :D I was in the Across the Universe fandom, but the whole RPF thing got to be too much, so I moved those stories to a different forum. **

**This is my first attempt at a POTO fic, as I am a relatively new "phan", so please be nice! I think I've kept the Phantom in character as much as possible but like I said, I'm new to this fandom. This story is a combination of the musical, (drawing more from the 25th anniversary one) Susan Kay's novel, and my imagination.**

_"Go now and leave me!"_ The words were torn from his throat painfully, as though coated with the sharpest of barbs. _Christine_. Images of the lovely prima donna with the haunting voice flooded the Phantom's brain. The love he felt for her was tearing him in two; he wanted her there with him but he couldn't bear to see her unhappy and it would be assured that a life beneath the Opera Populaire would make her miserable. The Phantom considered his existence to be akin to a living death and he wouldn't wish that fate on anyone.

Except maybe that thrice-accursed Vicomte de Chagny. The man, the untarnished, untainted, wholesome, handsome man that had ultimately won Christine's heart. It was obvious that they were deeply in love and that devilish little emotion was rooted so deeply in them that the Phantom knew nothing he said or did was going to change it. But a little inkling that Christine felt something for him kept niggling at the back of his mind.

When she left, the Phantom's heart shuddered and jerked in his chest in an apparent attempt to follow the young woman who had so completely captured it. He truly felt as though he might die. When she came back he was in disbelief. However, he was sufficiently in command of his mental functions to be able to tell Christine that she must leave and also one final thing.

_"Christine, I love you."_

_Christine_. She was gone for good now. She wasn't coming back.

_"Christine!"_ The pained thoughts became audible in an anguished wail as the Phantom staggered in a grief-induced haze over to the one thing that had once been his saving grace. His organ. Now music was nothing but a painful reminder of his shattered heart. With a burst of maniac strength, the Phantom brought his hands crashing down on the keys of the instrument, shattering them. Those same hands next found the sheet music that the Phantom had previously dedicated his life to and ripped them to unrecognizable shreds. They rained down on the ruined organ like the first handfuls of dirt on a new grave. At that moment, the Phantom made an oath that music would never again permeate his life. It simply held far too many painful memories.

The Phantom turned from the wreckage and swept to his room, hot, salty tears leaking from his eyes. On the right side, the disfigured side, they ran both over and under the porcelain mask. He couldn't feel much of anything on that side, but he most certainly had felt it when Christine had ever so gently caressed it.

A needle already filled with that sweet release from the horrors that characterized the Phantom's life that went by the name of morphine laid on the corner of his writing desk. He expertly wrapped a tourniquet around his arm, slid the needle under his skin, and emptied the contents into his bloodstream. Waiting for the blissful calm to overcome him, the Phantom lowered himself into his black satin covered bed. Ayesha, his beautiful Siamese cat and at times his only true companion, leapt up onto the bed and curled up against her beloved master, purring comfortingly. She hated to see her master upset and could usually make him brighten up somewhat with her antics, but her instincts warned her that simply being there would suffice this time.

The Phantom laid on his bed in a drugged daze, allowing time to slip by without rhyme nor reason. But up above him in the Opera Populaire, life was one large, hectic jumble.

"Excuse me madame, pardon me Monsieur!" Juliet Leroux slipped between the hysterical masses of people with many apologies. All she wanted to do was get back to her dressing room and decompress after all the excitement that had just taken place. She had seen Christine Daeé and her fiancé Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny run through the Opera House in a terrified sprint, hail the nearest carriage, and order it away from the building at top speed. Juliet wondered what had frightened them so.

She arrived at her dressing room and entered it quietly. Her costume from the ill-fated _Don Juan Triumphant _was heavy and uncomfortable so she shed it immediately in favor of an old, careworn, royal blue gown. Juliet combed back her stick-straight, jet black hair out of her eyes and held it in place with a jewel encrusted comb that was a present from her father on her sixteenth birthday. She paid special care to make sure her hair yet concealed her left brow bone.

Suddenly weary, she sank into a cosy armchair and enjoyed a few minutes of peaceful rest. When she awoke, it came to her attention that she had left her best perfume backstage near the curtain pulls before going onstage. Juliet exited her dressing room and headed in that direction. Mere feet away from her destination, the floor appeared to open beneath her feet and she found herself falling helplessly down a corridor of blackness that seemed to have no end. Her heart flew into her throat and her mouth opened in a silent scream of terror.

Endless moments passed before Juliet landed with a resounding thud on a soft surface. She struggled to her feet and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

The sound of water lapping at the edge of a lake echoed faintly in her ears. _So, the rumors are true. There really is an underground lake beneath the Opera Populaire,_ she thought in wonder. _But how..._

Her eyes had begun to adjust to the oppressive darkness, partially due to the candles stationed everywhere. In a very dark way, the place was, there was no other word for it, beautiful. The person who had designed it obviously had a marvelous eye for detail. Juliet's heart had stilled somewhat after her frightening fall, but a growl from the shadows made it go double-time all over again.

_Who knows what creatures lurk here?_ Juliet thought somewhat hysterically. Her hands began to shake and tremble like two saplings in a thunderstorm. Footsteps approached where she stood.

The morphine had started to leave the Phantom's bloodstream, bringing him reluctantly back into reality, when Ayesha suddenly stiffened, delicate ears pricked forward in intent listening. She uttered a soft growl of warning deep in her throat.

"What is it, my darling?" the Phantom asked in concern, reaching over to the agitated feline to stroke her back. She shied away from his hand, an infrequent occurrence, and jumped down from the bed in a fluid motion. He sat up, his own keen ears straining to detect any foreign noises. After a minute, he heard the tentative footsteps walking in his lair. A surge of rage flooded the Phantom's body; how dare this unknown person intrude upon the lair of the Opera Ghost? He got to his feet and instantly a Punjab Lasso was in his hands.

He silently exited his room, fury simmering in his eyes, and stalked in the direction from whence the noise was coming. When the intruder came into view, the Phantom was mildly surprised to see one of the newer chorus girls. But no matter, an intruder was an intruder.

And intruders had to be dealt with.

Juliet had no warning whatsoever when a lithe hand closed expertly around her throat and flung her against the wall with ease.

"Who are you and why have you come?" her captor roared, his voice reverberating off of the stone walls until there seemed to be a hundred of him. He shook her until her teeth rattled and spots of blackness swam across her vision.

"P-please Monsieur, I-I have d-done nothing wrong!" she choked, her hands scrabbling futilely at his iron grip.

He tightened his hold and she gasped, squirming in pain. "Answer the question!" he commanded.

"M-my name is J-Juliet Leroux," she whispered hoarsely. "I d-do not know how I g-got here. The f-floor opened up b-backstage a-and I fell t-through." It sounded ridiculous to her ears and Juliet was certain that the man would not believe her.

The Phantom dropped Juliet to the floor, cursing his forgetfulness. He had meant to close that damned trapdoor after he had used it when he... disposed of the Buquet man. In his preoccupied state, he had forgotten. And it had cost him his secrecy and isolation.

The girl gasped and coughed, massaging her throat with her fingertips and taking heaving breaths.

"You have trespassed upon the lair of the Phantom of the Opera and seen what lies within," his voice was harsh and metallic like two pieces of steel grating against one another. The girl, Juliet, shrank back in fright. "Now you may not leave."

Juliet found her voice. "So, that's it? I'm your prisoner without any further deliberation?" Her voice was incredulous.

"I did not say that," the Phantom said, a note of irritation inserting itself into his voice. "You will have access to every room, except mine."

"But I'm not allowed to go back to the real world," she pointed out. "I hardly consider that 'free'."

" Reality is a relative concept," the Phantom replied without emotion. Juliet huffed in frustration, but soon afterward adopted a pensive countenance.

"I have yet to properly look upon the person who has confined me to this labyrinth," she said curiously. "Come into the light." It was less of a request than it was a demand.

_At least she hasn't demanded I remove my mask,_ he thought, stepping into a ring of light cast by one of the many candles.

Juliet felt the air recently regained in her lungs expel in a gush. It was the man known only as the Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, or the Angel of music in the unique case of Christine. The one that had ruined the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and sent the chandelier crashing down on the audience.

He was extremely tall, and appeared to be even more so from Juliet's position on the floor. However, he looked to be nearing the likeness of a skeleton in terms of weight. His fingers were long, pale, and bony. A musician's hands. Her eyes traveled up to his face. A white mask concealed the right half of his face, making his expressions next to impossible to read. The half she could read was handsome and proud, but somewhat grief-stricken. His eyes were such a dark shade of brown that they looked black. Dark hair was slicked back to accommodate the tie of the mask.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked, slipping back into the shadows. Juliet gave a tiny nod, the only thing she was capable of in her shock.

"Your room is through there," he gestured at an elaborate archway. "I must go pick a few things up, I trust you will be able to amuse yourself until I return?" Before she could respond, he swept out of her sight. Juliet growled to herself in irritation.

The darkness was making her nervous, so she made her way to her new room. Oh, my, she thought in wonder when she saw the interior. The walls were a deep, royal blue, and the bedspread was similar to the feathers of a peacock in the sense that it shimmered many shades of blue when it was disturbed by movement.

Juliet flopped down on the bed, tears of frustration stinging the corners of her eyes. She had not resigned herself to this life, not yet. A few tricks lay up her sleeve still and she planned to use them.

**A/N: So, was it any good? I hope so! Anyone who can tell me where I got Juliet's last name gets a virtual cookie :)**

**The name of this fic came to me when I was listening to Ramin Karimloo's _Constant Angel _from his Human Heart album.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: And here's chapter 2! I got a lot of positive feedback for my last chapter, which made me happy. I also appreciate constructive criticism because it helps me grow as a writer. It's well and good to receive praise, but I like having someone say, "But you could work on this..." As long as you mean well and are truly trying to help me and not flame me, I will take everything everyone says into consideration. **

**And those of you that said that Juliet's last name came from Gaston Leroux, the original _Phantom _writer, you are correct! :) Enjoy your virtual cookies.**

**I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or anything else you may recognize.**

The Phantom paddled in pensive silence across the underground lake. A single image seemed to be burned as an after-image on his retinas. The wide, scared eyes of the girl who had intruded upon his labyrinth of a home kept interrupting his thoughts. He should have just killed her and been done with it, but something stopped him.

He realized now that it was her eyes. In his still slightly drugged state and anger, her large brown eyes had looked close enough to those of Christine's to break his composure. And even after all that had happened, he could never have brought himself to ever hurt her. At least, not physically. He knew he had hurt her many times emotionally. It broke his already damaged heart into little pieces.

But letting her stay? After all of the impudent, insolent things she had said to him? The reason, no matter how unfounded or foolish, was most likely the same as his reason for letting Juliet live. She simply looked too much like the woman who still unknowingly held his battered and broken heart in the palm of her hand, unintentionally squeezing it and twisting it still further with every move she made.

The boat bumping against the shore brought the Phantom's thoughts back to the present. He secured the boat and stepped out, his cloak swirling around his body. There were still a few twisting tunnels he had to make his way through, which gave his mind more time to wander. When he reached the end of the tunnels, a familiar voice greeted him.

"Hello, Erik," Nadir's voice floated out to greet the Phantom. He searched the inky blackness and caught sight of the man's form.

"Daroga," Erik replied coolly, acknowledging the other man.

"It's a bit early for you to be venturing out, wouldn't you say?" Nadir inquired, stepping forward. "Might I ask the occasion?"

Erik ignored the former of the two questions, choosing instead to focus on the latter. "I am merely in search of some food, Daroga. As you might imagine, I'm quite low."

If Nadir noticed Erik's deliberate avoidance of the first question, he did not make anything of it. "And tell me, are you going to enter the stores like everyone else this time?" he asked, already knowing the answer, a grim smile on his face.

Erik's expression was one that Nadir had yet to encounter. "Daroga, I'm no longer just the elusive Opera Ghost, I'm also most likely the most wanted man in Paris, if not all of France. Would you suggest I waltz casually into the nearest store and attempt to make a purchase? It would be foolish to assume that I would leave that store alive," he said quietly.

"You would make it out alive, that I'm nearly sure of. However, the other people in the building..." Nadir trailed off.

"And I do not wish to cause any more unnecessary deaths," Erik said quietly. "I have more blood on my hands than I care to think about," he continued, speaking figuratively. "This, as you must realize, leaves two options. I could run my own errands, taking what I need and leaving money, or you could do it in what you have deemed the "far more honorable" manner. I still value my life, Daroga," he continued. "However little it is worth. I have no desire to endanger myself."

Nadir was silent for a moment. "As much as I dislike your method, you desperately need some fresh air." When Nadir finished speaking, he found that Erik had vanished as silently as he had come.

Juliet sat upon the beautiful bed, not fully appreciating the room because she was nearly ready to go out of her head with extreme boredom. She stood up and made as though she was going to leave, but a cat appeared in the doorway. Juliet approached it, thinking to step over it, but it growled menacingly, hissing and showing its needle-sharp teeth. Frowning, Juliet retreated into the room once more, keeping a wary eye on the feline. It leapt to rest on the armoire, paws daintily crossed and a smug look upon its whiskered face.

_Able to utilize any room... Ha!_ Juliet thought bitterly. _Able to visit any room only if one is willing to risk one's life to pass this demon of a cat!_ The aforementioned cat glared sourly at her as if it was able to read her thoughts. She resisted the extremely puerile urge to pull a childish face in return.

She flopped onto the bed, laying on her back. A song was running through her head, an aria from one of the Opera Populaire's most popular operas. She closed her eyes and began to sing softly at first, but quickly gaining volume. The cat seemed to enjoy music, for she relaxed on her perch and purred quietly.

Erik slipped in and out of the stores, taking what he needed and leaving more than enough money. Years of a monthly salary of 20,000 francs enabled him to pay far too much for things without much thought. Soon, he had finished his errands and returned to the entrance of his lair. Nadir had gone and returned and he looked livid.

"Erik, what are you playing at?" he hissed, nearly grabbing Erik's shoulder, but stopping himself.

"Do you care to elaborate?" asked Erik calmly, moving around Nadir.

"You know what I'm talking about! Does the name Mademoiselle Juliet Leroux mean anything to you? The only daughter of a very rich ambassador that lives in Normandy? She's been missing for hours and already she's being spoken of as the Opera Ghost's next victim." A vein throbbed in Nadir's forehead. "Is she down there with you? Don't lie to me, Erik."

Erik strode past the outraged Nadir with a parting comment. "Must everyone assume that everything that goes wrong in Paris is my fault?" he asked scathingly. "_'Oh, the Opera Ghost did it! He's responsible, the Phantom of the Opera!'_ I suppose it's just easy to blame someone they're not sure even exists. I know nothing of this Leroux girl, Daroga," he said as he disappeared into the tunnels once again. "But if I did, would I tell you?" These were his last words before he was out of sight.

"No, no you wouldn't," Nadir murmured to himself, staring after Erik.

Out on the lake, Erik allowed his mind to replay snatches of the few good moments with Christine. Her smiling, her laugh, her singing-" he abruptly stopped. A voice was echoing across the lake, sounding curiously close to that of Christine, but very different all the same. It was a song that he had practiced many times with Christine. Anger and grief, a dangerous combination under the right circumstances, flashed through his brain.

He got out of the boat and strode in the direction of the voice.

Juliet had loved to sing ever since her father had taken her to her first opera. The swooping, soaring voices and the vivacious costumes took her breath away. After the opera, Juliet had begged for singing lessons in the obstinate manner that only a child could until her father gave in. He was pleasantly surprised when his beloved daughter showed talent in the vocal arts. And as a result, he sent her to arts boarding school after arts boarding school. He claimed that it was to help her, but in reality he had just wanted her out of his hair so that he could be free to expand his business. And where, one might ask, was her mother during all of this? She had died in childbirth, leaving Andre Leroux to care for their high-spirited daughter.

Juliet tried not to dwell on such things. They affected her singing voice. She reached her favorite song just as the door banged open and the Phantom towered in the doorway. In a pace and a half he had crossed the room and his hand was around her neck for the second time.

"Would you care to explain what exactly you are doing?" he hissed, squeezing her neck and making Juliet gag and choke. Her large eyes bulged and her mouth opened and closed several times like a fish.

"I'm singing," she rasped, managing to add, "what does it look like I'm doing?"

"You are not to do so again," the Phantom snarled. "Do you understand?" Juliet merely stared at him, defiance in her eyes even though her face was slowly turning red. She scrabbled at his hand with her own, but his strength far outmatched her own.

"Answer me! Do you understand?" he yelled, shaking her until her teeth rattled in her skull.

Dark spots were beginning to swim in Juliet's vision. She managed to croak, "Why... no singing... if you're... the Phantom of the... Opera?" before the world spun at an alarming rate and she slumped against the Phantom, out cold.

Erik jumped away from Juliet in alarm when she passed out. He had meant to scare her, not make her faint. For a moment, it looked as though she had ceased to breathe. He went back to her side and anxiously probed her soft neck with two fingers. To his immense relief, there was a pulse. _I really need to get my temper under control,_ he thought, leaving the room after lifting her into the bed.

He left her room, his brain tying itself in knots. Heaven only knew that Erik did not want Juliet in his home any more than she wanted to be there. And yet, she reminded him too much of Christine for him to be able to let her go. It was not wise for him to try and create a replacement Christine, that much he knew. And as much as it was driving him crazy, it was also one of the only things keeping him somewhat sane.

So Erik did the only thing he could do. He shot yet more morphine into his veins and sat at his desk drawing picture after picture of his beautiful Angel, Christine Daaé. At times his tears flowed so heavily that they ruined the parchment and he was forced to start over.

Ayesha, sensing Erik's distress once again, leapt into his lap and laid down, rubbing her head against his arm.

"Oh, Christine," Erik whispered to the drawing as though it might hear him. "What do I do now? Where do I go from here?" There was, of course, no answer.

_Oh, this angel in hell._

**A/N: And so ends Chapter 3! A bit of anti-Christine coming up in the next chapter, just as a warning.**

**As always, review please! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hi readers... if I still have any. I'm soooooooooooo sorry that I didn't update this sooner, but I actually have a legitimate excuse. I was going to post this chapter at the beginning of last month, but my router went kaput and it was saved on my iPod. Crummy excuse, but there it is. **

Many hours and many, many drawings later Erik slumped over at his intricately carved mahogany desk, exhausted from grief. His sleep was anything but peaceful however, as dream after dream about his past flooded his brain. His mother screaming at him, the face in the mirror and the subsequent lacerations of his wrists and hands after he smashed the mirror, the gypsies, Giovanni and his daughter, his time in Persia, the building of the Opera House, Christine. At times, they mixed together to create even stranger circumstances until Erik couldn't tell fact from fiction. Soon after, the apparitions of his dreams dissolved like insubstantial mirages of the desert.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Juliet groaned softly and attempted to lift her head from the soft, feather pillows adorning the luxurious bed. For a moment, she couldn't recall where on earth she was and a pang of panic struck her heart. And then she remembered. _Right, I'm stuck in the lair of the Phantom of the Opera._

She struggled to sit upright. Her settings further came into focus as she blinked blearily. Deep blue walls, a simply enormous canopied bed that was a shade of blue like the feathers of a peacock, a bookshelf that was stuffed to the rafters with leather bound and most likely expensive books, a pure white marble washbasin, and many other costly looking trinkets were scattered here and there. All in all, it was an attractive room. _This Phantom fellow must have quite a lot of money- well, of course he does!_ Juliet thought, swinging her legs over to the edge of the bed in preparation of getting up. _He's been getting a princely salary ever since he's been at the Opera Populaire._

Juliet realized that she was still wearing her slippers from the day before when her feet touched the floor. Hazy details of what had transpired with the Phantom came filtering into her brain as she made her way to the washbasin on the other side of the-she refused to acknowledge it as hers-room. When her image was visible in the mirror above the basin, the memories came flooding back and she groaned.

"Beautiful, just lovely," she muttered, pressing her fingertips to the dark bruises adorning her slender neck. They were in the general shape of a large, strong hand. They were very sensitive to the touch and Juliet made sure not to touch them again. She wondered why the Phantom had had such an aversion to her singing. If the rumors were true, he had a sort of obsession with music. So why demand that she never sing again? And, now that she thought about it, Juliet had noticed that the organ had been broken. The rumors and whispers about the mysterious man were thus far not matching up with the reality she was facing.

There was, thankfully, fresh and cool water in the pitcher beside the basin. Juliet was glad for the opportunity to wash her face. On an absolute whim, she opened the armoire to the left of the bed. A surprise greeted her. Dresses that looked to be roughly her size filled the space, as well as accessories and shoes. _Now how could he have..._ she wondered. But now that she looked more closely, some of the dresses looked to be curiously similar to some of the things that Christine had been wearing. In fact, Juliet thought that some of them were exactly the same.

Regardless, Juliet didn't want to be wearing the old blue gown for two straight days. So, she pulled a dark green dress out of the armoire and put it on. The clip in her hair had understandably become loosened, so she went back in front of the mirror to fix it up a bit. She had every intention of asking the Phantom where exactly the wash room was in this cavernous expanse.

Tentatively, she opened the door and peered around. The demon cat appeared to be nowhere in her immediate vicinity, so Juliet deemed it safe to step out. Her feet, clad in a pair of emerald silk slippers, were almost entirely silent on the cold, gray, stone floor. The place was entirely silent and to Juliet, it felt as though she was the only person alive. It was somewhat eerie, really. Eventually, she came to stand in front of a dark, silent door. It was ornate, with climbing, dancing silver filigree here and there.

Even though nearly every instinct Juliet possessed warned against going into the room, her overly curious nature prevailed and her hand curled around the decorative doorknob. Slowly, she pushed the door open. A darkly beautiful room greeted her eyes. A vast, black satin bed commanded the majority of one's attention. There wasn't much for furniture, but what little there was was grandiose and expressive. Juliet's gaze shifted to the left and her gaze fell upon a large writing desk. There was a person asleep at the desk, and there was no doubt that the person was the Opera Ghost.

A gasp caught in Juliet's throat and her feet took root in the floor. She had no desire whatsoever to have another run-in with the Phantom. The two she had had thus far were far more than enough. She took a stumbling step backward and collided with the door.

Instantly, the Phantom was on his feet, so fast that Juliet questioned whether he had really been asleep. "Mademoiselle Chris-Juliet, have we not had the discussion about the fact that my room is off limits?"

The name slip-up had not escaped Juliet's attention, but she chose to ignore it for the time being. "I was hungry and was looking for something to eat," she defended herself. "I don't know my way around this place like you do." She was very lucky to have caught the Phantom in a sleepy stupor, or she might have added to the bruises on her body.

"The kitchen is three doors down from this one," the Phantom said stiffly. "If that is all..." Juliet's keen eyes had just fallen upon the pictures on the Phantom's desk and identified their subject. Suddenly, the reason for her being held captive here had presented itself to her with astonishing clarity, and she didn't like it. Not at all.

A frown creased her brow. "Is that what I am then, a substitute, a stand-in?"

The Phantom offered no change in facial expression. "I'm sorry, but I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking ab-" Juliet stopped him.

"Yes you do," she said, feeling a tidal wave of anger rise up in her chest. "I'm just a replacement Christine for you. The fact that I'm not dead, the reason I'm being kept here, the reason music of any sort isn't allowed, the name confusion, and the multiple sketches of Christine on your desk. They all make sense now." If Juliet hadn't been scared out of her mind, she would've taken an indignant step forward. Or three. She hated being compared to the rising prima donna. All Monsieur Firmín, Monsieur André, Madame Giry, or practically anyone for that matter, would ever say was, "Oh, you're _nearly_ as good a singer as Christine... You're _nearly_ as graceful as Miss Daaé... You're _nearly_ as pretty as Miss Daaé." Juliet was sick and tired of hearing what she nearly was.

"Look at yourself!" said Juliet scathingly. "Look at what she's done to you. When I came to the Opera House, I was immediately told all of the 'Opera Ghost' horror stories. I couldn't close my eyes at night for a week. And to think, all that was needed to undo you was one woman with a better than average singing voice. She's got you wrapped around her little finger and she doesn't even know it. You went from cunning, malicious specter to quivering, depressed wreck in one, graceless move." Juliet's eyes next found the empty morphine syringe.

"And this is how you think you're going to keep your head above water?" she asked in disgust. "Drugs make pain go away for a time, but as soon as they fade the pain comes back. No matter what you do, it always comes back. Always." Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. "You can't run or hide from a problem, Phantom," she whispered. "You can only face it dead on." She turned on her heel and swept out of the dark room.

Once outside, Juliet brushed at her eyes impatiently. She followed the Phantom's instructions to the kitchen and let herself in. Thankfully, there was plenty of food stocked there, but it appeared as though the room hadn't seen much use. This fact didn't surprise Juliet overly much. The Phantom looked like he didn't eat much and didn't eat often.

The kitchen, like the other rooms Juliet had encountered down there, was exquisite. All of the metalwork in the room was a burnished, gleaming bronze, as were all of the pots and pans. What was not metal was a smooth, black granite. Juliet noted that the color black seemed to be a recurring trend.

Soon, she had fixed herself a nice breakfast of eggs, toast, and fruit. Even though she had by no means forgiven the Phantom for the many things he had done, she made up a tray of breakfast for him. She realized that it could very well be dangerous to go back into his room, but she didn't care.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Erik stared at the ceiling as he laid on his bed. _She's right; I'm a mess. But then again, what does she know? She doesn't know what it's like to have your beating heart ripped out of your chest._ He sighed, scratching Ayesha's ears softly. She purred and placed a soft paw on his shoulder as though sympathizing with his somewhat pitiable situation.

"Well, it's going to do me no good to just lay here, is it?" he posed the question to Ayesha. She cocked her head to the side like she was taking his question into consideration. Then she nudged his shoulder gently yet insistently with her nose, prodding him up and out of the bed.

"All right, all right," he chuckled, getting out of the bed. Ayesha jumped into his arms and made herself comfortable, purring contentedly. "Sometimes I really wonder who's the master here, me or you," he told the feline. She gave him a smug look.

Erik slid his feet into his house slippers and made his way over to the desk. He stared longingly at the drawer where his morphine resided, but Ayesha meowed loudly and distracted him. Reluctantly, he turned his eyes away and sat down at the desk. The candles that he had lit had worn down and Erik replaced them before pulling a fresh stack of parchment out of one of the drawers in his desk and also a fresh bottle of ink. His golden flecked fountain pen lay exactly where he had left it the night before.

Carefully, he took the writing implement in his hand, dipped it into the ink, and began to sketch. This time, his pen did not shape the lovely face of Christine Daaé. It drew the beginnings of a building plan, very different from the last one that Erik had designed. For one thing, it was above ground.

His door swung open again and Erik got to his feet, irate. Had he not made himself clear the first time? This room was off limits for everyone but him. Ayesha jumped off the desk from where she had been drowsing and curled around Erik's ankles, ears flattened and eyes narrowed.

It was Juliet. She wore a forest green dress that he had... acquired for Christine some time ago and a determined expression. "I made you breakfast," she informed him, setting the tray on a table next to the door. Delicious smells wafted over Erik. He stood there dumbly, unsure of what to say. "A simple thank you would suffice," she said, exiting the room once more. Erik tried to make his mouth work.

"Than-" The door swung shut. He looked at the tray for a long moment, and turned back to his work. He wanted to finish this outline and had no time for food until then. A part of him was struck by the gesture of kindness that had just been shown to him. People didn't often show him anything of that sort.

Erik worked straight through the day, hardly stopping for anything. At one point his face grew warm and the mask started to rub against his face, a very uncomfortable sensation. So, he cast it carefully off and continued in his work. Near the end of the day, Erik's stomach rumbled thunderously. He looked over to the tray which had remained untouched.

_Maybe if I set it in front of the fire for a few minutes, it'll warm up a bit,_ he thought, picking up the tray and setting it on the hearth. He returned to the desk to straighten up his papers and set them in a drawer, and then the door opened for the third time that day.

"I've just come to collect the t-" Juliet, who had just come in, stopped cold, her mouth slightly agape and fear flooding her dark brown eyes.

Erik realized right away, too late, what was wrong. When he'd taken the mask off earlier, he'd neglected to put it back on. He whirled on his heel and strode into the shadows of his room.

_Yet another person who cannot see through to the beauty underneath. Just perfect._

**A/N: Well? What did you think? Again, I'm so so so so super sorry for not posting this sooner, but it had been entirely done on my iPod and I didn't feel like writing it up again. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I always manage to post these way after I mean to. Sophomore year is totally crazy. Plus, it's musical season. When that's over, I think I'll be able to write a little bit more. **

**Enjoy!**

Juliet stood in a stiff, trancelike state for a moment. She remembered with all too much clarity what had happened the last time the Phantom had been unmasked. An opulent chandelier had fallen from the ceiling of the Opera House, Christine had been kidnapped, the Vicomte had had a near heart attack, and the audience had been in hysterics. As one might imagine, Juliet had no desire to invoke a repeat performance. Not at all.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the mask laying inanimately on the writing desk. Slowly, she began to inch over to it. Taking the cool, porcelain half-mask in her shaking hands, Juliet haltingly approached the turned back of the Phantom.

"M-monsieur?" her voice quavered. He made no acknowledgment of her presence. "I-I have your mask." She held it out and he reached behind to take it. Juliet placed the mask in his hand and the Opera Ghost replaced his sanctuary over the right half of his face.

"Merci," he murmured, still facing away from her.

"You know," Juliet began. "it's not so bad, your face." The Phantom scoffed, scooping Ayesha up in his arms.

"Mon dieu, mademoiselle. Did you even _see_ it?" he asked, turning back to face her for the first time. "It's horrible."

"Yes, I did see it," she said. "It's only ugly if you choose to believe it. Monsieur, look at me." Against her better judgment, Juliet had drawn her hair away from the left side of her face to reveal an angry, red, puckered scar above her left eye. It had obviously become infected soon after it was inflicted and as a result it had widened and spread. The scar looked to go quite a ways back into her hairline.

A small intake of breath was the only thing heard from the Phantom. His fingers, seemingly by their own will, had begun to extend toward Juliet's face. He appeared to catch himself and made an attempt to withdraw his hand, but Juliet caught it and gently guided it to the distorted skin. She was surpised to feel how cold the Phantom's hands were, as though he'd been holding them in an icebox only moments previously. After a few seconds, she let go.

A question was struggling mightily to form on the Phantom's lips, but Juliet answered it before it became audible.

"When I was a little girl, I was playing with some of my cousins. They were all boys and all older than I. So as a result, they were quite a bit stronger as well. Thinking to be funny, one of them pretended to shove me over a rocky ledge on the beach where we were playing. But his hands moved faster than he could control and I lost my balance." She paused for a moment, not wanting to recall the details, and also finding it hard to. It had been so many years ago.

When she continued, her voice dropped several degrees. "I fell all the way down to the sand. They say I was lucky to have landed where I did. If I'd landed a few feet back, I would've landed on a rocky outcropping. Nonetheless, my head struck a sharp rock in the sand. Thankfully, my uncle was a doctor." Juliet rearranged her hair so it fell across her scar again. "But as there was not much for sanitary supplies, I got an infection. I was sick for weeks." She looked up at the Phantom.

"I've managed to keep living, why can't you?" she inquired.

"It's different," he muttered, turning away once more. "You can hide yours."

"So apparently, can you," Juliet retorted, gesturing to the white half-mask. He shook his head, and Juliet sensed a deep sadness radiating from him.

"No, mademoiselle," he said quietly. "Please leave." Juliet looked at the Opera Ghost one final time before leaving. After she closed the door, she ran into a man. A shriek of surprise bubbled up in her throat.

"I'm sorry mademoiselle-" the man flapped his hands to shush her, and then paused. "What on _earth_ are you doing... your name wouldn't happen to be Juliet Leroux, would it?" Juliet hesitantly nodded, wondering how a man she'd never seen in her life would know her name. The man clapped a hand to his forehead. "I should've guessed," he muttered. "Mademoiselle, the entire police fleet of Paris is looking for you, and has been since yesterday. He looked as though he was going to say something else. But a muffled thud interrupted him.

It had come from the Phantom's room. "What-" Juliet's brow furrowed, but the man paled considerably at the sound and rushed for the door.

"Oh no," he murmured, fumbling with the door handle in his haste. A still figure lay on the floor, the Siamese cat sitting next to it with her ears pressed flat to her head and a constant stream of worried yowling issuing from her mouth. The man sprinted to the unconscious Phantom with Juliet following close behind.

"Damn it, Erik," the man hissed, probing the Phantom's wrist for a pulse. Juliet saw the empty syringe on the floor and understood immediately what had happened. "You blasted fool," he growled. "Help me move him," he turned to Juliet with a plea, lifting the Phantom's legs with the greatest of care. Juliet obliged, putting her hands under his arms. His bones jutted out against her skin sharply. Together, they carefully lifted him onto the bed.

"Could you get a bowl of lukewarm water and a cloth?" the man asked. Wordlessly, Juliet left the room and ran for the kitchen. The seconds dragged on as she fumbled through the cupboards. When she returned, the man had removed the Phantom's mask and was going to work on his shoes. Juliet set the bowl down on a mahogany table and assisted him.

"What's your name?" asked Juliet as she pressed the damp cloth to the Phantom's forehead.

"Nadir," he responded, worry still sitting heavily in his face.

Some time passed in silence. "So," Juliet said, brushing a rogue strand of hair out of her eyes. "His name is Erik?" Nadir nodded. "How do you know him?" she asked curiously, dipping the cloth in the water again and wringing it out.

"He came to Persia, which is where I'm from, for a time. The shah rather liked the little 'magic tricks' he could do." Nadir paused for a moment. "I blame myself for this," he said, shaking his head. "I did this to him."

Juliet cocked her head. "How could you? You didn't stick the needle in his arm." Nadir shook his head vigorously.

"No, no, that's not what I meant. I got him addicted to this stupid drug. It started with an opium pipe. He got worried about what it would do to his voice, though, and switched to morphine." He heaved a great sigh that seemed to come from the very core of his being.

"He's not making music anymore," Juliet said, subconsciously stroking Erik's hair as one might for a small, sick child. Nadir looked up in shock.

"What?" he asked, eyebrows wandering up toward his hairline.

"He won't sing and he evidently wrecked the organ and his sheet music shortly before I 'arrived'," Juliet listed off, unsure whether 'arrived' was the right word for falling down a trapdoor.

"This is bad," Nadir muttered, dragging a weary hand through his hair. "This is very bad. Look, I can't stay down here, and I know you probably don't want to, but if you have no objections would it be pretentious it ask you to come down every so often to take care of him? I would call him my friend, but I'm sure he would disagree." Nadir let out a short bark of a laugh. "In any case, I shouldn't like to see any permanent harm come to him.

Juliet gnawed on her lip, weighing her options. She owed no favors to the Ph—Erik, that was for certain. But she didn't like to see anyone suffer, even people that have caused quite a bit of their own trouble. "I'll do it," she surprised herself by saying. A relieved smile touched Nadir's lips.

"Bless you, mademoiselle," he said with feeling, shaking her hand. "I think he'll be all right for the time being if you'd like to come back up with me."

"Merci," she said gratefully, gently patting Erik's forehead with the cloth once more. The cat slunk out from where she had been hiding and bumped her head against Juliet's leg once before leaping up to the bed and resting her head on Erik's chest.

"Well, that's a thank you if I've ever seen one," Nadir chuckled. "Come on." He led her through the spacious lair to the shores of the underground lake. A heavy, swirling, opaque mist hung over the obsidian waters. The boat looked like nothing more than a child's plaything and Juliet had some rather large trepidations about getting in.

"Careful now," warned Nadir as he helped her into the little boat. The ride across the water was silent, broken only by the sounds of the water lapping at the sides of the boat.

When the boat at last bumped up against the shore, Nadir helped Juliet out of the boat and offered a parting comment. "Thank you again, mademoiselle. I think you'll be just what he needs."

A few minutes later, Juliet entered the Opera House dressing rooms and promptly ran into Meg Giry. The blonde's eyes flew open. "Juliet?" she gasped. "Where have you been?"

Juliet smiled at the girl. "At home, why?"

Meg groaned. "The entirety of Paris is looking for you!" she said, and then her voice lowered to a hushed volume. "We thought the Opera Ghost had gotten you."

"No, no," Juliet said, hoping sincerely that she looked more innocent than she felt. "The... events yesterday shook me up a bit and I needed some time to calm my nerves." Meg nodded empathetically.

"That's understandable," she said. "I need to tell you so much! Christine left the Opera Populaire. I would have done the same thing if I were in her place, poor dear. They say she and the Vicomte are going to England. And you've been given the role of prima donna!" she squealed, throwing her arms around a very stunned Juliet.

What?" Juliet breathed. Meg pulled away, still grinning from ear to ear.

"You're the prima donna at the Opera Populaire now!" she repeated, bouncing up and down with joy.

"But what about La Carlotta?" Juliet asked. Meg shook her head, blonde curls bobbing in agreement.

"After the Opera Ghost killed Piangi she had a breakdown. She won't be singing again for a long time." Part of Juliet wanted to feel sorry for the woman, but an even greater part of her breathed a sigh of relief that the boisterous soprano wouldn't be there to boss her around.

Meg grasped Juliet's arm, bringing her head bumping down out of the clouds. "Come on! Mother wil be so happy to see you!" She tugged her down the hallway until they came to a stop in front of Madame Giry's office.

"Maman!" Meg tapped on the door. Madame Giry was instantly in the doorway.

"What is it, Meg, what—" her mouth fell into a nearly perfect 'o' of surprise. "Mademoiselle Leroux, is that you? Are you okay?"

Juliet nodded, pulling her cloak up higher on her throat. "I'm fine, madame." The usually wooden ballet instructor pulled the girl into a warm embrace.

"We have much to talk about." Madame Giry ushered Juliet through the door. For at least an hour, they discussed the state of the Opera House and Juliet's new role as the prima donna.

At one point, Madame Giry had said, "You know, Christine expressed to me right before she left that she would have very much liked to see you in a starring role." And Juliet had felt a rush of gratitude toward the soprano. She still wasn't quite ready to rid herself of all animosity, but this had been a significant step in that direction.

"And of course, you'll get a new dressing room." Madame Giry seemed to have finished the discussion.

"I'm fine with the one I have, really-" Juliet began, but the instructor cut her off.

"Nonsense," she said briskly. "You're our leading female now, it's only right you should have a better room. Come, I'll show you to it." Juliet got to her feet and struggled to match Mme. Giry's long strides. When they arrived, Juliet was shocked to see that it was Christine's old dressing room.

Madame Giry opened the door for her and leaned down so their heads were touching. "Monsieur Nadir just contacted me. There's a secret passageway down to Erik's home through the mirror," she whispered, and then pulled away. In a much louder voice she said, "I expect that mademoiselle would like to rest now. There is a meeting in three hours, but until then you are free to do as you choose." She patted Juliet's shoulder and strode away.

Juliet stepped cautiously into the dressing room and found that al of her things had been moved in. A curious thing, she thought, as most people were convinced that the Opera Ghost had claimed her.

Remembering, she hurriedly shut the door and approached the mirror. Running her fingers all along the edges, she soon found a latch and tugged. The mirror swung open surprisingly easily, catching Juliet a little off-guard. A rush of cool air made her hair flutter a bit.

She stepped through the doorway and began to search for the lair of the Phantom of the Opera. _It really was like a maze with all the winding passages,_ she decided. It took at least twenty minutes for her to get to the part of the lair she knew.

The quiet sound of the lake alerted her to her location. Erik's door appeared on her left and she opened it. Erik still laid on the bed with the cat lying beside him. When she saw Juliet, her ears pricked forward in acknowledgment.

Juliet went to Erik's bedside. His eyes roamed sightlessly under his eyelids and he shivered a bit. She pulled the covers up from the end of the bed and tucked them around him. He seemed to be waking up, so Juliet went into the kitchen and began to make a very mild broth.

Right as she took the pot off the stove, a horrible scream echoed through the walls. Juliet dropped the bowl in her hands so that it bounced and clattered on the counter, picked up her skirts, and ran as fast as she could back to Erik's room. He was thrashing around in the bed and yelling in pain and fright, obviously caught in a terrifying dream world.

"Mama, don't, _please!_" he screamed, cowering away from an invisible force in the bed. "I'll be good, I promise! All I wanted was..." the scream dwindled into a whimper and Juliet was unable to decipher exactly what the last part of the sentence was.

She rushed to the bed and cradled Erik's bony shoulders against her body. "Shh, it's okay Erik. Everything's alright."

"Don't wanna look," he whimpered. "So terrible, monster in the mirror. Make it go away, please. Just wanted a kiss." The sentence from before was finished and Juliet wondered what kind of a mother would deny her own child a kiss. She gently reached down and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

She'd been placed in charge of the younger children at whatever boarding school she went to and knew what she must do to calm the man who had become a lost little boy in his dreams.

She earnestly hoped that it would only send him back to more peaceful dreams and not wake him, because what she did next was sing.

_Once there was a way,_

_To get back homeward. _

_Once there was a way_

_To get back home. _

_Sleep, pretty darling, _

_Dot not cry _

_And I will sing a lullaby. _

_Golden slumbers, _

_Fill your eyes _

_Smiles await you when you rise _

_Sleep pretty darling _

_Do not cry _

_And I will sing a lullaby. _

_Once there was a way _

_To get back homeward _

_Once there was a way _

_To get back home _

_Sleep, pretty darling _

_Do not cry _

_And I will sing a lullaby._

When Juliet finished the song, to her great relief Erik had not awoken. He had slipped back into a dreamless sleep. She gently slid out from under his shoulders and went to go get the bowl of broth from the kitchen. Upon returning, she heard him stirring. Feeling it would be rude to go barging in, Juliet tapped her fist against the door.

"Enter," the voice that floated back to Juliet's ears was frail and thin, so different from the booming, echoing voice that had first confronted her.

She gently eased the door open, carrying the bowl of broth delicately in one hand. Erik was struggling to sit up and cover his face at the same time.

"Oh, no you don't," Juliet warned, setting the bowl down on a table and fetching the set aside mask. She turned away for a moment to allow him to mask himself in privacy.

"Lie back, will you? You're in no condition to be sitting up," she lectured, retrieving the bowl again.

With a huff, he eased himself back down again. Juliet perched on the edge of the bed and filled the spoon with broth.

"A friend of yours was here," she told him in between spoonfuls. The eyebrow that was not masked raised marginally.

His name was Nadir," she added and Erik nodded. A few minutes and several more spoonfuls of broth later, Juliet spoke again.

"Have you any idea how close to dying you came?" she asked. "If Monsieur Nadir hadn't been here, you wouldn't be alive right now. This is why drugs only create problems, Erik—" she froze, as did he.

"How do you know my name—Nadir," he muttered. "That man has yet to learn how to think before he speaks." The bowl of broth was finished before either one spoke again.

"I can only stay for a bit longer," said Juliet. "I've been promoted to prima donna and—" The look in Erik's eyes made her falter. "What?" she asked and when Erik's gaze didn't fall from her face, she sighed. "Erik, you're looking at _me_, but you're not seeing _me,_" she said.

He caught on quickly. "I'm sorry," he said, blinking his eyes a few times as though to clear them. She set the bowl aside and drew the covers up again. His hands came up to rest on the blanket and Juliet briefly glimpsed thick, white scars on his wrists and palms. She wondered what they were from.

Returning from washing out the bowl, Juliet saw that Erik had fallen asleep again. Her eyes wandered over to the desk and found a drawer that was slightly ajar. The siamese cat rested on top of the intricately assembled writing desk. Recalling the cat's previous hostility toward her, Juliet approached the piece of furniture with caution.

However, the feline showed no aggression and instead leapt onto her shoulder and began to purr. "Hello there," she chuckled. "Have I been forgiven, then?" Her attention returned to the drawer. A cursory glance revealed Erik's supply of morphine. It took Juliet all of four seconds to make up her mind. Gathering all of the items, she bundled them into her cloak and left.

Having yet to memorize all of the passageways in the lair, she got considerably turned around and nearly beheaded by a booby trap. This little excursion added quite a bit more time to her journey.

When she got back above ground, she dumped the morphine and syringes into the first rubbish bin she laid eyes on.

The meeting was just getting started when Juliet hurried into the room. "Sorry," she said sheepishly. "I lost track of time."

Madame Giry nodded. "Don't let it happen again," she instructed. "As all of you know, Mademoiselle Juliet Leroux is our new prima donna," she addressed the people in the room. A round of applause made Juliet's cheeks turn a faint shade of pink.

"And as a result, we needed a new leading man," Madame Giry continued. "Which is why I've hired Monsieur Gaston Rosseau." A man rose from his seat in the corner and waved with a confident smile. He and Juliet locked eyes and she felt a shiver run down the small of her back.

His eyes were an icy blue that radiated a determined aura. But it was a dark determination and it scared Juliet.

**A/N: Fin! I don't own the lyrics to Golden Slumbers, which actually is an old lullaby, but this is the Beatles version. I'm thinking of it being sung a little more softly than they did, though. **

**Review? :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ugh, I've done it again, haven't I? Promised a timely update? Many apologies, musical season is now over and while that makes me somewhat sad, I'll (hopefully) have more time to write. I'm currently balancing five different stories and it's driving me batty.**

"We have a new opera to prepare for," Madame Giry briskly said, snapping the uncomfortable eye contact between Juliet and Gaston. "We will be performing _Carmen. _A run-through will be held in ten minutes in the piano room." She thumped her walking stick twice on the floor and the crowd instantly dispersed.

"Is your voice as beautiful as you?" a smooth, oil-slick voice wound its way into Juliet's ear. She jumped and turned to see Gaston standing behind her. His light brown hair was slicked back neatly and his fancy, opulent clothing hung perfectly straight on his frame.

"I suppose you'll find out soon enough," she answered, turning to leave, but Gaston caught her arm.

"Pardon my intrusiveness," he said in a voice that threatened intrusiveness in every syllable, "but I noticed bruising on your throat. Are you all right?" Juliet managed to tamp down a shock that ran through her with an electric current.

"I'm fine, it was an accident," she said briskly. "Excuse me, monsieur." She attempted to brush past him.

"Gaston," he corrected her, "and it looks like a hand. So how—" Juliet was mercifully spared from having to answer by Meg.

"Julie?" she called. "Come on!" Gaston dropped her arm and Juliet rushed off.

"Thank you," she murmured in her friend's ear.

"Something about him frightens me," Meg replied. "I can't place my finger on it, but," she shuddered, "try to stay as far away from him as you can." Juliet wished she could take this advice to heart.

"That may be a bit of a task, considering he's the leading man," said Juliet. Meg nodded sadly.

The run-through was a nerve-wracking experience. She was forced to be seated by Gaston, who sat far too close to her. By the end, she was practically sitting in Meg's lap. He had a fine voice with a flexible range, but an unsettling aura poured off of him and made Juliet quite nervous.

"That will do for today," the vocal director said. "You may be dismissed."

"I'm _starved_," Meg exclaimed passionately. "There's a little cafe down the street that sells pastries that are to _die _for."

Juliet felt her own stomach growl. "That would be nice," she agreed.

"Would anyone mind if I joined to lovely ladies?" A mental cringe rippled through Juliet. _Yes, _she thought, but there was no escaping it and saying no without seeming impolite.

"Okay," said Meg hesitantly. Gaston held out his arms for the two girls to take and it was with great reluctance that Juliet slipped her arm through one of his outstretched ones.

The walk to the cafe was mercifully short and soon Juliet was breathing in the scent of warm, fresh pastries.

"You'll have to pardon me," Gaston's face was a perfectly insincere shade of embarrassed. "I've only recently moved to Paris and I haven't been here yet. What would you recommend?"

"Um, these are nice," Juliet pointed out her favorite almond bun.

"Why don't we just order three of those?" suggested Meg, rummaging around in her bag for her coin purse.

"No, please, let me pay for it," Gaston said, pulling the correct amount of money out of his pocket and placing their order to the counter attendant.

"Merci, monsieur," said Meg, walking over to take a seat at one of the little, wooden tables. Gaston rushed to pull out two chairs for the girls before taking a third for himself.

"Call me Gaston, please," he repeated his earlier plea. Juliet tried to finish her pastry as quickly as she could without appearing rude, as the conversation was the very definition of awkward. As soon as someone would speak, silence would be right on the heels of the sound, swallowing it with a gulp.

"Well, this has been lovely," Juliet blatantly lied, "but I really should get going."

"So should I," Meg said, getting to her feet and arranging her skirts.

"Let me walk you," offered Gaston. The girls shared a fraction of a look, each begging the other to decline.

"That won't be necessary," said Juliet, picking up her bag. "Thank you for the offer, though. And the pastries," she added.

Gaston laughed. "And she even has a lovely sense of humor! Farewell, mademoiselles." He kissed each of their hands and Juliet made note to thoroughly wash hers later."

They just couldn't get out of the shop fast enough. "What a nightmare!" Meg groaned. "That was horrible, I thought he was going to ravish you right then and there on the table!" Juliet buried her face in her palms, feeling her face turn a vibrant shade of crimson.

"Don't say that," she moaned. "I'm trying to get the after-image of those eyes out of my head."

"If he weren't so strange, I might even say he was handsome," said Meg thoughtfully.

"I might, but I can't move past the fact that his eyes are burning holes in me every time he looks at me. I'll look like a moth-eaten carpet soon!" she joked.

When they got back to the Opera House, Juliet headed for her new dressing room, which also doubled as her room during performance season.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Slowly, Erik's eyelids fluttered open. He struggled to recall what exactly had happened. A pounding in his head and a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach reminded that he'd accidentally overdosed on morphine.

Speaking of which, he was starting to feel the all-too familiar feeling of withdrawal. He slid out of the bed and made his way over to the drawer in the desk like there was a magnet pulling him toward it.

When he pulled it open, however, it was empty. Erik knew that he hadn't been anywhere near running low, let alone, well, _out._

Where was it?" Erik started rummaging through the other drawers with a madly increasing sense of urgency. When he came up empty, he began tearing through the other drawers in his room, Those didn't yield his stash either.

He began to get seriously desperate and looked in all of the most illogical places. Under the bed, behind the dressers, in the armoire, if it existed, Erik probably looked there.

_Where was... Juliet! _Erik cursed his slowness. There was only one person, well, in reality there were two, but Erik seriously doubted that Daroga possessed the capabilities to do such a thing. So there was only one person who could have taken it. And her name was Juliet Leroux.

When her soft footsteps approached his door, he flung it open and momentarily relished the look of surprise that crossed the newly appointed prima donna's face. "Where is it?" he growled, narrowly keeping his temper in check.

"Hello, Erik," Juliet said cheerfully even though he could see her hand quivering uncertainly, ignoring the evidently enraged Opera Ghost confronting her. "How are you?... Fine? Oh, good. I'm wonderful, thank you for asking!" She blabbered on, holding a one-sided conversation in a bright tone that he knew she was using purely to irk him.

It was working. "Where. Is. It," his voice lowered to the pitch he usually reserved for bothering Firmin and Andre and he grasped her shoulders tightly.

It didn't appear to perturb her overly much. "Where is what?" she asked. "Because 'it' could refer to any number of things... mon dieu, what _happened _in here?" She seemed to see the newly-wrought havoc in the room for the first time and her mouth fell open in shock.

"You know exactly what I"m talking about," he snarled.

Her composure was beginning to slip, he noted with satisfaction. "Evidently not. Could you please elaborate, and while you're at it, let me go so I can make the room look like a bit less of a disaster zone." Juliet attempted to wriggle from his iron clad grasp, but it wasn't working overly well.

"The _morphine_," Erik stressed the last word, hanging on to the last shreds of his composure by his fingertips.

"Oh, that." Juliet's face immediately lost most of it's certainty. "Well, you see, it looked an awful lot like trash and I may have thrown it away," she said, still pushing some confidence into her voice.

Erik regained control over his jaw just in time to save it from crashing to the floor. "You _what?_" he roared.

Her confidence was all but gone now. "I threw it away," she repeated quietly. "It almost killed you!" she exclaimed, as if that would make it understandable.

"That's not the point!" Erik shouted, releasing her shoulders and striding across the room to keep both of them safe.

"What _is _the point then, pray tell?" Juliet's voice dropped to a deceptive calm.

"I need it!" Erik's voice struggled vainly to keep a note of pleading out.

Juliet's face took on a look of incredulity, all traces of fright mostly gone. "So, what you're saying is that you need something that is ruining your life?"

Immediately, Erik was on the defensive. It was most certainly _not _ruining his life. "If it's the only thing keeping me sane, I'm not sure how that's ruining my life."

"Your sanity is much different than mine then, because mine doesn't entail life passing me by in a drug-induced haze," Juliet said stiffly.

"Look, you have no idea what I've been through—" Erik began, but the angry young soprano sliced across his words, mercilessly cutting through them with a sharp snap.

"Don't you dare play the 'no one knows the trouble I've seen' card. That's the weak option," Juliet said, and Erik was shocked to se that tears were shining brightly in her eyes. "Do you have a real reason?" she asked.

A sudden silence was all that could be heard from Erik. His mind raced to find an answer, growing angrier with every passing second. _He didn't have one._ "I don't know when the idea that I needed saving from myself popped into that pretty little head of yours, but it can leave _right now_ because you're wrong. I don't need saving. But you will in a moment if you don't leave. My life is mine to run and I don't need a _ballet rat _to look after me like some child's nanny," he snapped. "Oh, you might've been named prima donna but you will never be—" he caught himself at the last minute, but the damage was done. A single tear slipped down Juliet's cheek, but when she spoke her voice was steady and ice cold.

"As good as Christine?" she finished his thought. "Thank you. You and everyone else seem to think so." She strode over to the door with faux-confident steps.

"You may want to rethink your statement," Juliet offered him a parting comment. "You might be the infamous Opera Ghost, but no one is immune to the symptoms of withdrawal." The door swung shut in a tense silence.

Erik sat down heavily on the edge of his bed and dropped his head into his hands. A soft nudge to his elbow prompted him to look down at Ayesha, who had resurfaced from her hiding place during the argument.

If it was at all possible, the look on her whiskered face was a combination of I-told-you-so and pity.

"Oh for God's sake, not you too," Erik growled. "Whose side are you on anyway?" Ayesha let out an irate yowl that said, _get over yourself_ as plainly as if the cat had spoken aloud and jumped into Erik's lap.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"That rude, arrogant, stuffed shirt of a—ugh!" Juliet shrieked into her pillow, feeling hot tears in the corners of her eyes. She was in what she had named the Peacock room due to the iridescent blue bedclothes. She admonished herself for allowing Erik's words to get to her, but they had stung like bee stings.

_See if he gets any help from me when he's throwing up and his temperature is through the roof,_ she thought savagely, getting up and preparing to leave.

When she reached the passageways, she bumped into Nadir for the second time that day.

"Good evening, mademoiselle," Nadir swept into a bow. When he came back up, his brow crinkled. "Pardon my asking, but is something the matter?"

Juliet could still feel the heat high in her cheeks and knew that her mouth must be setting in a firm line. "Hello, Monsieur Nadir," she said. "Yes, I suppose so."

"What happened?" he asked as though he knew the answer already.

"While Erik was sleeping I disposed of his morphine supply and he found out," she said, drawing a heartfelt wince from Nadir.

"Mademoiselle, that was both very brave and very stupid," he said, looking at her with concern. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

She paused. "Not physically, no," she said, running a hand through her hair, "but he has quite the barbed tongue."

Nadir nodded in agreement. "I should have mentioned that, I'm sorry."

Juliet marginally raised her shoulder. "What's done is done," she said. "I've got to get going, but please do me a favor. Don't give Erik any more morphine, no matter how he pleads with you or threatens you."

"You're in for a very difficult few weeks," warned Nadir. "I wish you the best of luck, mademoiselle." They bade each other goodbye and Juliet made her way back to her room.

By the time she got back, it was quite late and she was exhausted. Her eyes felt sandy and heavy as she shimmied into her red flannel nightgown and washed her face.

That night, her sleep was deep and mercifully dreamless.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Erik paced in tight circles around his room. Why was she so stubborn? It was absolutely none of her business, she just had to stick her nose into absolutely everything, didn't she?

He groaned in frustration and sat down on his bed. Now would have been the perfect time to Punjab somebody. Really, any irritating worker at the Opera House would do. Unfortunately, his hands were shaking so badly he doubted his aim would be any good.

He stood up and left the dark room, making his way over to the stable. His wonderful, handsome black stallion, Caesar, pranced in place in his stall, whickering softly. The horse was a high-spirited animal who needed quite a bit of exercise.

"Hello, Caesar," Erik murmured, letting himself into the stall and scratching behind the stallion's ears affectionately. Caesar nuzzled Erik's chest searching for his favorite treat, sugar cubes. Chuckling, he pulled two cubes from his pocket and placed them in the palm of his hand. Caesar's velvety lips picked up the sugary treat and a faint crunching sound could be heard briefly.

"I'm sorry, I haven't got any more," he said, patting the horse's neck as he searched the rest of Erik's pockets. He reached up onto the tack shelf and pulled his dark leather saddle down to put it on his horse. He needed some fresh air. Maybe that would get rid of his pounding headache.

Taking the reins in his clammy hands, Erik led Caesar above ground and got on his back. He longed, as did his horse, to run through the dark streets of Paris at an all-out gallop until they appeared to be no more than a dark shadow, but it would attract far too much attention. So, they walked and occasionally trotted. The cool breeze slightly diminished the pounding cadence between Erik's ears for a time, at least.

About thirty minutes later, without any warning Erik's body flashed alternately hot and cold and a pain like a hot knife blade sliced through his head repeatedly in sickening waves. Growling and hissing with pain, Erik led Caesar over to a bunch of bushes off the road, slid off his back, and was promptly and violently sick.

When he finished, he straightened up laboriously as his back seemed to have locked up and dabbed at the corners of his mouth of his mouth with the handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket.

"Monsieur, are you all right?" a man's voice materialized out of the darkness. In the very faint light from the gas lamps, all Erik could make out was a medium sized figure with electric blue eyes that seemed to defy the poor lighting.

Erik tamped down another wave of nausea. "Thank you for your concern, monsieur, I'm fine. I think my dinner may have had a disagreement with my stomach." He made an effort to keep his tone light and airy, but he was horrified that someone had, firstly, seen him retch all over the bush like a drunkard, and secondly, someone had seen him in the first place. He drew the hood of his cloak further over his face and prayed the darkness would hide the mask on his face.

"Where did you eat?" the man inquired. "I'm a recent dweller of Paris and I'll have to take note not to eat there."

Erik froze. He had expected the man to keep moving, not stay and chat. "Erm, a little tavern a few blocks from here," he lied, his forehead uncomfortably hot and damp. "I don't recall the name."

"Okay," he said, tipping his hat, "I hope your stomach trouble clears up!" Erik waved in return, getting back on Caesar with great difficulty. His muscles had stiffened.

Once he had gotten back and placed Caesar back in his stall, Erik collapsed into bed.

**A/N: I will try my hardest to post the next chapter sooner, as I should have more time to do so.**

**Review? :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello, everybody! Chapter six of Constant Angel is about to begin! Muchas gracias to all of my reviewers, I love you all :)**

**Just as a quick note, this is the only story that will be continued on this account for some time, as it is the only one close to Christmas in the timeline. (I took some liberty with the timeline and made Christine's flight before the end of the year rather than in the beginning of the next one.) I like writing in the style of the holidays when they come around, and would prefer to focus on that aspect. On my other account (PeaceLoveBeatles18) Only Life Goes on Within You and Without You will be worked on for most of the Christmas season.**

The next morning, Erik felt as though he'd been poisoned. Every muscle in his body was on fire and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. He attempted to sit up, but found it too strenuous.

As if on cue, Juliet appeared carrying a bowl of broth again. Erik growled in frustration and rolled over on his side, away from the little prima donna who looked far too much like Christine. "Go away," he mumbled.

"You look as though you've been to hell and back," she informed him, a slight depression on the bed indicating that she'd sat down.

"Mademoiselle, if this is not hell I don't know what is," he replied, pulling the blankets up under his chin without turning to face her. Suddenly, he was cold enough to have his teeth start chattering.

"It's only hellish if you chose to let yourself think so," Juliet reminded him irritatingly.

"Must you repeat the same thing over and over again?" he grumbled, shivering beneath the bedclothes.

"I wouldn't have to if you didn't do the same," she retorted. Erik gave no reply, remaining huddled up with his back turned to her. "You have to eat something, you know," Juliet said.

"I'm not hungry," he said, and this was true. His stomach was roiling and heaving like a ship on a stormy sea.

"You will be later," she predicted.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, partially in annoyance at her prying and partially in true curiosity. Juliet was silent for a long while, so long that Erik wondered if she'd left and in his fevered state he hadn't heard it.

But then she spoke. "Because no one deserves to go through something like this alone," she murmured. Erik was really starting to wonder why this particular subject touched her so deeply.

"I'll leave the bowl on the hearth if you want any later," she said, getting up. "I have rehearsal now, but I'll be back later." Juliet walked out the door, skirt swishing across the stone floor like waves gently whooshing in and out on a beach.

Erik winced as his muscles screamed in protest when he heaved himself out of bed. The bowl seemed to weigh a ton and the spoon weighed at least half of that. The broth was warm and mild, and as much as Erik was loathe to admit it, it soothed his turbulent stomach a little and eased the pain in his head.

Suddenly weary after so little exertion, Erik managed to get back in bed, but left the sheets at the end of the bed. Sweat was running down his back and heat seemed to be radiating off his skin.

Whiskers tickled the back of his hand. Weakly, he looked down. Ayesha nuzzled his hand delicately and curled up against his leg, purring comfortingly. He stroked her ears gently and fell slowly into an uneasy sleep.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Juliet pulled her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck as she rushed through the passageways. She was getting to know the way better and was able to go faster and more effectively.

No sooner had she gotten back in her room and started to pull on her rehearsal outfit than there was a knock at her door.

"Just a moment, please!" she called, hopping around the room while lacing up her dancing shoes. When she opened the door, a surprise greeted her.

"Good morning, mademoiselle," Gaston said, bowing low.

Juliet was sorely tempted to slam the door on that smug, handsome face. "Bonjour, Monsieur Gaston," she said hesitantly, not meeting his eyes. "You'll have to pardon me, I was just making my way to rehearsal and I don't have time to talk." She tried to inch by him, but he moved to block her.

"That's really too bad!" he exclaimed. "Would you allow me the honor of walking you to rehearsal?" _Oh, fabulous,_ she thought. _No getting out of this one either._

"Sure," she said. Once again, he held out his arm for her to take and Juliet mentally steeled herself before slipping her own arm through his.

They walked in silence for a moment, and then Gaston asked, "What's all this business with the Phantom of the Opera, then? I've been told any number of ghost stories you care to mention and I could swear I saw a man with his description riding a horse as black as coal dust last night."

Juliet nearly yelped. "Well, I don't believe he would have a horse, as he is rumored to live beneath the Opera House and you can't just house a horse underground. He amuses himself by leaving notes for the management of the Opera Populaire, plays tricks on the dancers and singers, and things tend to happen when his demands aren't met."

"Didn't he abduct some poor girl a time back?" her unwelcome companion asked.

"Oh, Christine Daae? Yes, he was her voice instructor, and if the rumors are to be believed, he fell in love with her to an extreme degree and brought her down to his lair after sabotaging his own opera."

"And he wears a half-mask?" Gaston inquired.

"During the performance of his opera, _Don Juan Triumphant,_ he hung our previous leading man and attempted to drag Christine down to his lair. She pulled off his mask to reveal his deformity and he felled the chandelier as a distraction. Her fiance, Raoul de Chagny, saved her. It's been relatively quiet around the Opera House since then, I would hazard a guess to say that he's died of a broken heart," Juliet said, explaining.

"Surely a monster such as that would not be capable of love. He sounds positively horrible. The deformity most likely extended to his brain," Gaston scoffed.

They had arrived outside the dancing studio. "Yes, well," Juliet said, pulling her arm from his and fighting the urge to vigorously scrub her arm to rid herself of any trace of his touch. "I have rehearsal now, goodbye monsieur." She trotted into the studio.

She hadn't danced for some time and was therefore quite stiff as they stretched, but soon she was mostly limbered up. Gaston's questions thoroughly disturbed her and caused her to be continually distracted throughout the entire rehearsal. Add to the fact that she was worrying about Erik and it equated to a very off-beat prima donna.

"Julie, what are you doing?" Meg asked after Juliet incorrectly executed a turn for the third time that day.

"Sorry Meg, I'm just a little off today," she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "My mind keeps wandering."

"Your expression is a mixture of nervous and worried," the blonde said, putting a hand on Juliet's arm. "Is it Gaston?" she murmured. Juliet allowed herself a tiny nod. "If he keeps bothering you, talk to my mother," the girl advised her friend.

"Mademoiselles Meg and Juliet," the aforementioned woman's voice rang out sharply across the practice room. "The time to socialize is before or after practice, _not_ during. Kindly focus on your dancing."

The girls exchanged sheepish looks and returned to their rehearsal. This time Juliet made a serious attempt to focus and she managed to shove both Gaston and Erik into a tiny corner of her mind and left them there. And then, thinking that they, in all likelihood, would not get along, she thoughtfully separated them into opposite corners of her mind.

By the end of rehearsal, Juliet knew that she had overexerted a muscle in her leg. It was nothing sleep and copious amounts of stretching wouldn't fix, but at that moment it was bothersome.

"It's lovely to have a prima donna who can dance," Madame Giry said. "Christine could dance, but she was prima donna for such a short amount of time and there were such power struggles between her and La Carlotta." Juliet's cheeks glowed, part in embarrassment and part in pride.

"Thank you, Madame," she said, bowing her head to hide her pink cheeks. The dance room was empty except for the two now and Juliet whispered, "Erik is very ill at the moment. I'm trying to get him off of morphine, but it isn't going smoothly at all."

Madame Giry's eyes softened with sympathy. "I've been telling him he needs to stop taking it. Good luck, and if you could keep me informed I would be grateful. For a long while, I was one of the only people he could call a friend. As a result, I feel quite close to him and I wouldn't like to see any harm come to him."

"Of course," Juliet replied.

"We would like you and Monsieur Rosseau to have a rehearsal with just the two of you to run the scenes you do together. Is an hour from now sufficient time?" Madame Giry inquired.

"That would be fine, I'm just going to go check up on Erik now. I'm confident that I'll be back in time," said Juliet, making her way out the door and feeling her stomach sink like it had been loaded with rocks and tossed into the ocean.

Two steps out the door, her stomach gave a lurch right back up past it's original place. Standing in the hallway and talking up a group of giddy chorus girls was the newest patron of the Opera Populaire and brother to the Vicomte: Phillipe de Chagny. He was notorious for chatting up girls shamelessly and had even gone after Christine at one point. In 'the pastry incident' as Juliet called it in her mind, Gaston had offhandedly mentioned being good friends with Phillipe.

_So much for the idea that opposites attract,_ Juliet thought. _The only reason they're not twins is that they're not related and look nothing alike._

Seeing Gaston round the corner in the hallway, Juliet hurriedly turned and scuttled in the direction of her dressing room, attempting to avoid detection at all costs. Her deep red skirt swished across the light gray stone as she made her way to her dressing room down the wide, ornate hallways of the Opera House.

Opening the mirror, Juliet slipped inside the passageway where she was immediately met by Ayesha, which surprised her. The cat rarely left Erik's side. She yowled at her urgently, trotting back off down the damp, faintly lit corridors. Instantly, Juliet knew that there was something seriously wrong with Erik. Grasping her skirt in her hands tightly, she ran after the feline.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Dizzily, Erik stumbled into the washroom and fell onto the cold tile floor. He had intended to get some cool water to splash on his burning face, but now it was all he could do to just lay there and let the cool from the tiles soothe some of his aches and pains.

His reprieve was short, however, for soon his stomach began to roil and churn painfully, making him cry out and bite his lip hard enough to draw blood. He curled in upon himself, pressing both hands to his vengeful stomach. Bile began to rise up in his throat and he only narrowly managed to get his head over the large chamber pot before the contents of his stomach made a reappearance. When he finished he coughed violently and attempted to wipe his mouth, but he retched again and again, his body quaking.

Even though there wasn't anything in his stomach he continued to be sick, his abdomen contracting repeatedly and painfully.

Between retching, he saw through pain bleared eyes that Ayesha was standing in the doorway, meowing in alarm.

"Juliet," he rasped, hunching over the chamber pot again. "G-g-get J-juliet." He knew it was foolish to try to converse with a cat, they couldn't understand human speech after all, but Ayesha must have gotten his general meaning. She went running in the direction of the tunnels and Erik slumped down, trying to control the quivering spasms that wracked his body. _Hurry, Ayesha._

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Where is he?" Juliet asked Ayesha, feeling singularly foolish about talking to a cat. Ayesha veered off in the direction of the washroom with the worried young woman in hot pursuit.

The door was slightly ajar and she pushed it open, gasping at what she saw. On the floor in a crumpled heap, covered in his own vomit, was Erik. He was conscious, but just barely.

Breathing through her mouth to avoid smelling the acidic contents of his stomach, Juliet knelt beside Erik after filling a glass with water from the pitcher on the wash basin. She held it to his dry, cracked lips.

"You need to drink this," she said softly, knowing that among other things, his head was probably thundering with pain as well. Erik shook his head, wincing even at that little movement, indicating that he thought it would all come right back up again. "It might come back up, but you're dehydrated. You need liquids." With a breathy sigh, Erik parted his lips and allowed her to trickle some of the cooling liquid between them. Pausing slightly, they waited for a sign of his body's acceptance or rejection. Thankfully, it stayed down and she gave him another sip.

"Can you walk?" she asked. He rolled his head to look at her and fixed the prima donna with a withering stare that stated loudly, _What do you think?_ Even at his lowest point, he was still sarcastic. "I'll mark that as a no," she said. "Put your arm around my shoulder and we'll just take this one step at a time." He hesitated before carefully putting one thin arm around her shoulders. Juliet put her arms around his waist, avoiding pressure on his abdomen, and they laboriously stood up with agonizing slowness.

At the first step his knees buckled, making the pair pitch forward and nearly fall. "Just go slowly. One foot in front of the other," Juliet whispered. "You can do it." After a long, difficult exodus to Erik's room, Erik was laying down on the bed, eyes shut, breathing labored.

Juliet looked at the vomit-stained shirt and knew she couldn't leave him in it. Rummaging around in his vast armoire, she pulled out a long, flannel nightshirt. "You can't stay in that shirt," she said, sitting down on the bed. "It'll just make you sicker." After giving her yet another look of tired annoyance, Erik's fingers fumbled stiffly with the buttons of his shirt, unable to undo them.

"Let me help you," she said, delicate fingers quickly unbuttoning the lightweight, stained white shirt. Easing him into a sitting position, she slid his arms out of the sleeves and felt her cheeks heat up as he sat there without a shirt. Long strips of scar tissue ran across his alabaster chest and looking at his back revealed more there. She recognized them as whip marks and shuddered at the thought of what his past must have been like. Sliding the flannel nightshirt over his head, she proceeded to gently remove his pants, averting her eyes and blushing furiously the whole time.

Once Erik was tucked under the duvet, Juliet went into the kitchen and boiled a kettle of peppermint tea which she set on the hearth with a cup next to it. The peppermint would help calm Erik's stomach whenever he chose to drink it.

Quickly, she cleaned up the washroom, narrowly avoiding retching herself. She brought along the stained shirt and dropped it in her empty laundry basket, spritzing perfume into the air, masking the scent.

Even with all of that, she managed to arrive to rehearsal five minutes early and wandered around the room twisting her fingers together. Then, she made up her mind. Why should she let Gaston intimidate her? He was a disturbing person, no doubt, but hew as still only a man.

The vocal instructor and Gaston arrived together. "Ready?" he asked, his dark blue eyes radiating eagerness, a challenge, and that determination that still sent shivers over her skin.

"Definitely," Juliet replied, meeting his gaze evenly. For the next few hours, they engaged in a fierce battle of voices, running the scenes until they were gasping for air. Gaston and Juliet seemed to mesh extremely well as Don Jose and Carmen, so much so that people started filling in to watch. Every note radiated tension and chemistry.

"That will be all," the vocal director said in a dazed voice some time later.

"That was amazing," Gaston said in an amazed voice, coming up to Juliet.

"Thank you," she said, briefly shaking his hand, but he stopped her.

"You've been avoiding me, mademoiselle," he stated, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.

"Have I?" she feigned oblivion, smiling sweetly.

"Yes, and it has left me grievously wounded," Gaston proclaimed, placing a dramatic hand over his heart.

"I'm very sorry," she said, fighting off a repulsed shudder.

"Such a wound requires compensation," he said. "Would dinner tomorrow night suit you?" Juliet opened her mouth to say that she was quite sorry but she was busy, but Gaston breezed right over her. "Splendid! I'll pick you up around eight, then." He left her opening and closing her mouth in shock.

Juliet walked slowly back to her dressing room, massaging her temples gently. _What on Earth have I gotten myself into?_

**A/N: Annndddd, fin! Did you like it? Dislike it? Want to throw it out a window? Tell me in a review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hello, dear readers! This is indeed chapter seven of Constant Angel! I'm working my behind off to get a lot written for this story so I can get a Christmas chapter up by Christmas. If I don't, it'll be near Christmas, anyway. As we get nearer to the holidays, my teachers are simply DOUSING me in homework. Such is life. :P**

Juliet didn't sleep much that night. Her fitful sleep was plagued with worry about Erik, dread about Gaston and their looming date, and the memory of something that she thought she'd forced herself to forget.

—_Dream—_

_ "Make it stop, oh God, just let me die," Juliet held the fevered, quaking girl in her arms._

_ "Shh, it'll be okay, Lola. You're going to be okay," she whispered in her friend's ear. It broke her heart to see the girl that had been her steadfast friend for most of their lives in such pain. Lola's body was practically vibrating with the need for the drug that it had been so heartily addicted to. Morphine._

_ "I need it so badly, please get me some," Lola whimpered, pleading as tears ran down her porcelain face. _

_ "It'll be over soon, Lola," Juliet said, laying her friend on the couch and nearly breaking down into helpless sobs at the sight of Lola's glassy, disoriented, unfocused eyes. "But I can't do that. I'm going to make you some broth, it'll make you feel a little better, I promise." Lola said nothing, but merely stared past Juliet, her sandy blonde hair lank and her dark blue eyes devoid of their usual cheerful sparkle._

_ Juliet wandered into the kitchen and assembled the necessary ingredients for a mild broth. While she stirred it, she hummed softly to herself. It was a song that her father had said was her mother's favorite._

_ When it was done, she poured it into a bowl. "Lola, do you want a glass of water?" she called. No response. She was sure she wouldn't be sleeping, the withdrawal sucked the life out of her, but it wouldn't let her rest. Her heartbeat kicked up a few notches as she went into the bedroom, but she was mostly calm._

No need to worry, she's probably just—_ Juliet's thoughts skidded to a screeching halt in her head, reverberating off the sides of her skull like a gong being struck and her vision tunneled until all she could see was the small, crumpled form of a young woman and a broken syringe on the floor next to her. _

_ "Lola," Juliet choked, shock making her body numb. She tried to walk over to her friend's body, but her knees buckled beneath her and she fell to the floor next to Lola. _Please don't be... please, just be alive,_ she thought, praying in vain, pressing her fingertips to the rapidly cooling skin of Lola's neck. No pulse. _

_ "Please, Lola. Wake up, please. You have to wake up." Juliet picked up Lola's unfeeling hand and pressed it to her chest, feeling hot tears cascade down her face in crystalline waves of grief. How had there been morphine in the house? She'd thrown it all away. She must've had a secret stash. Juliet could see her delirious, weak friend getting up off the couch, falling to all fours in desperation, and locating what she thought would ease her misery. In her haste, it would have been far too easy to put the wrong, lethal dose into the needle._

_ For what seemed like hours, Juliet sat there and rocked the broken body of her friend back and forth until one of their mutual friends arrived with a bundle of blankets and a book as a get well present for Lola. When she came in, she immediately collapsed next to Juliet in a heap of wailing grief and disbelief._

_ The next time she looked down at Lola's face, to her shock it was the lifeless face of Erik she saw. "What—" she gasped, fear clutching her heart._

_ A low, sinister chuckling filled the air. She looked up in slow realization, but noticed that Bridgitte hadn't heard anything. It sounded again and a pair of malicious blue eyes materialized in front of her along with a long, curved knife. It flashed toward her with a deadly shimmer._

—_End dream—_

Juliet shot straight up in bed, feeling the stickiness of dried tears on her cheeks. She waited until her heart was no longer bent on beating itself out of her chest to make mildly rational thought.

Lola LaFayette had been one of her dearest friends. They'd gone to school together for a time, before Juliet was shunted off to another boarding school, but they'd always kept in touch by letter. Whenever Juliet was in Normandy on holiday, they'd visit for hours on end.

Unfortunately, Lola's home life had been less than what one could call ideal. Her mother had been killed in a fire and that had driven her father to near say that he drank in excess would be a massive he wasn't drunk or passed out, he was looking for a way to become inebriated. He wasn't really a violent drunk, anyone could tell you that. However, he was waspish and inclined to inflict bodily harm if someone got in the way of his drinking or if he thought they had.

Lola only did that once. She tried to pull the the nearly empty bottle of spirits out of his hands and he seized her by the wrists, smacked her in the face, and threw her across the room with the strength only an enraged drunk possessed. Juliet remembered with all too much clarity that Lola had limped all the way to her house with a rapidly swelling eye, a sprained ankle, and cracked ribs. Juliet's father, who looked at Lola as a second daughter when he wasn't away on business trips, had called the doctor immediately. Lola still loved her father and wouldn't tell the doctor it was he who had hurt her. She told him that she had been mugged but hadn't seen the faces of her attackers.

Seeing that the girl was in immense pain, the doctor gave her morphine. Juliet knew she should have seen the look in her friend's eyes when the drug took hold, but she had passed it off as relief at the time.

Over time, Juliet began to notice a change in Lola. The girl became increasingly distracted and her temper would be short sometimes. It was hard for Juliet to pinpoint exactly when she discovered her friend about to inject herself with a large quantity of the potent drug into her veins. From there, a long power struggle over taking it versus quitting ensued.

When Lola finally agreed to try and quit, Juliet had been entirely unprepared for the backlash of withdrawal. She hadn't known that Lola would be in so much pain or feel so sick, and she certainly hadn't been ready for how desperate the girl would get. For three years now, Juliet had been blaming herself for the death of one of her only friends. "What ifs" were her biggest enemy. _What if you'd been there? What if you told the doctor that it was her father that had hurt her when she confessed it to you? Maybe she would've been okay._

Juliet clutched her head in her hands, hot tears leaking from under her eyelids. "I'm sorry, Lola," she whispered into the silence of the night. "I'm so sorry."

Why on Earth had Gaston been in her dreams? Or Erik for that matter, Juliet pondered. She supposed it was probably because she was frightened about the date with Gaston and terrified that Erik might die from her negligence as well. At that moment, she made a vow to herself that Erik would get well. And he would be well before full cast rehearsals began for the opera. That gave her two weeks. _It would happen, _she promised silently.

She managed to get back to sleep, but her slumber was still troubled.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Slowly, Erik woke the next morning. He immediately noticed three things. The first, most prominent one was that his mouth tasted _awful_. Blurry details of his extreme bout of sickness trickled into his head. The second was that a pot of tea, peppermint by the smell, was warming by the fire, which had been stoked. And the third, most puzzling one was that he was somehow wearing his long, flannel nightshirt. Erik was thankful for this last thing, as he was back to shivering with cold. _But how... right, Juliet was here._ He felt a little rush of gratitude for the girl.

The taste in his mouth had to be eradicated, that was first and foremost in his mind. Erik reluctantly slid out of bed, sticking his feet into his house slippers immediately. His fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold and he nearly dropped the delicate cup as he poured the tea into it. It was just the right warmth and soothed his rough, sore throat and tumultuous stomach exponentially.

Vaguely, he recalled that Juliet had practically carried him into his room. Erik felt uncomfortable about how much she had helped him. He'd been nothing but rude and snappish, but she just kept coming back. He supposed he owed her something, quite a lot, probably, but what? Tea finished, a wave of sleepiness washed over him and he just managed to get back in bed before the tides of sleep carried him away.

He awoke to the sound of his door opening. Juliet entered his room quietly. "Sorry to wake you," she whispered. "Just checking in. Are you hungry at all?" she asked. "Because you really should eat something." Something had changed in her demeanor. Erik couldn't exactly place what it was, but she seemed... kinder? Softer? Either way, she seemed a little more amiable toward him and Erik couldn't help but wonder why.

"Nothing substantial," he said. "I don't think I can stomach much more than broth," he grimaced, thinking of the pain of the night before.

"Right," she nodded. "I'll be right back." Erik reclined against the soft pillows of his bed, staring mindlessly at the ceiling until Juliet returned.

She sat on the edge of his bed and helped him prop himself up. "Can you hold it yourself?" she asked.

"Yes, I think so," Erik replied, taking the bowl and spoon from her and beginning to slowly drink the broth.

The expression on her face prompted him to say, "You're different." Instantly, he realized that it had come out far more bluntly than he had intended and flushed a little.

Juliet merely chuckled. "Was that a compliment, an insult, or merely an observation?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

Erik ate some more soup to buy himself a few extra seconds to think. "An observation, I suppose," he said. "You're acting differently than you have been."

Juliet hesitated a fraction of a second before adopting a politely confused look. "Am I?" her voice was slightly off, like she wasn't sure how he could possible know something like that. "How?"

"It's just something in your demeanor," Erik responded, handing the empty bowl back to her.

"Would you like me to go back to shouting at you?" she asked good-naturedly. "Because I can gladly do so."

A small, weak chuckle came up from Erik's chest. "That's quite tempting, really, but I think I'll pass," he chuckled, wincing as a pain arched through his chest.

"Sorry," she apologized. Setting the bowl on the bedside table, she said, "We're running a long rehearsal today, all of the acts in chronological order even though it's not full cast. I'm in most of them and I won't be able to come down at all until tomorrow because I'm otherwise occupied tonight as well. Monsieur Nadir will check in occasionally, is that alright?"

"It's tolerable," Erik said emotionlessly. He had no feelings one way or another toward Nadir at that particular moment. "Who asked you to dinner tonight?" he asked, feeling just the littlest bit moody for reasons unknown.

"How did you—" she asked. "Never mind. Gaston Rosseau, he's the new leading man since you _disposed_ of our last one." Here she gave him a reproachful look that made him feel a tad guilty. "I'd rather sing with Piangi; Gaston's a living terror to work with. I thought_ Carlotta _threw monumental tantrums. He talked me into going to dinner tonight, believe you me, I'd really rather I didn't go." Erik saw that she truly did not want to. Something about her seemed frightened of the unknown man.

"Does he scare you?" he asked.

"Am I really that transparent?" Juliet theatrically rolled her eyes. "Yes, quite a bit, actually. And the worst part about it is I don't even know why." She sighed. "I've got to go now, get some rest okay?" She helped him lie back and tucked the duvet around him once more.

_This blasted withdrawal sucks away all of my energy,_ Erik thought in irritation, feeling the familiar waves of sleep claim him for their own once again.

A few hours later, Erik woke up and felt a little more like himself. This of course, meant that he was a bit put-out with simply lying in bed and doing nothing. He was still cold, so his journey over to his writing desk and back was a brief one. The building plans he had started were calling to him to be finished, which is what he did, using a book as a hard surface on which to write.

Soon, Nadir materialized in the doorway. "Hello, Erik," he said, coming in.

"Daroga," he nodded, setting aside the drawings and motioning for Nadir to come in.

The Persian looked a bit hesitant at this gesture of welcome. "You look to be feeling a bit better," he said as he sat down in an armchair next to the bed.

"I believe this is just a temporary reprieve, it seems to come and go in swells," Erik replied, stroking Ayesha's back. The feline had leapt onto the bed as soon as Erik had begun working and had decided that she was far more important than any work he could possibly be doing. Therefore, she had started walking all over his drawings and ended up sitting down in the middle of one before Erik had picked her up and set her on his other side so that one of his arms could comfortably rest around her and continue working. This seemed to appease her somewhat.

"Juliet is a nice girl for coming down here to look after you," Nadir commented, crossing his ankles together. "She's one of a very select few that would."

Erik nodded distractedly, his attention focused once again on his work. Then, a question for his companion popped into his head. "Nadir, you've been around the Opera House lately, what is the new leading man like? Juliet mentioned that he was somewhat of a terror."

The other man's brow crinkled in confusion. "Well, I don't know where she got that idea. I talked to him for a few minutes and he seemed pleasant enough. He's got all the ballet girls charmed right out of their shoes."

"Well, that's the ballet girls," Erik replied drily. "Something about him bothers Juliet, but she doesn't know what exactly it is."

"Are you worried about her?" Nadir asked.

"No!"

"Then, why are you asking?"

"Because I want to know he's trustworthy. A leading man in _my _theatre ought to be respectable and trustworthy, not instilling fear into the prima donna," said Erik irritably.

"Right, that's _your _job," Nadir retorted. Erik rolled his eyes in a complete circle.

"Nadir, I feel rather tired, could I trouble you to leave now?" he asked tightly.

The Persian sighed. "All right, Erik. I'll see you later."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Juliet was just closing the mirror when the sound of her door opening nearly sent her through the roof. She whirled to see Gaston entering her dressing room.

"It's nearly time for rehearsal, I'm just making sure you won't be late," he said, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What on Earth were you doing?"

"Oh, I was just putting some of my things behind the mirror," Juliet lied airily, hoping he couldn't see through her as well as Erik could. "I discovered a storage compartment back there and I thought it might be a good idea to keep some of my valuables there."

"Ah, I see," Gaston nodded, looking somewhat unconvinced. "Come, we should go." This time, Juliet brushed past her unwelcome companion to walk in front of him so she wouldn't have to contaminate herself with his aura any further than she already had.

Rehearsal was fine as long as she wasn't onstage with Gaston, which was, admittedly, not a lot of time. Madame Giry insisted that the kisses, which there weren't many of, were not done yet. When she announced this particular fact, she gave Juliet a significant look and she had wanted to hug the stuffing out of the ballet mistress there and then.

"I assume you'll want to go change before we head out?" Gaston came up behind her and stood far too close to the prima donna for comfort.

"Yes, thank you," Juliet said, trying her hardest not to run back to her dressing room. On her way back, she smacked into Meg.

"Julie, I heard about your date," she said. "I don't really know what to say, other than good luck."

"Thanks, Meg," Juliet said, hugging her friend. Back in her dressing room, she rummaged through her dresses to find something appropriate for a night out, but something that wouldn't suggest anything more than a friendship. In the end, she chose the emerald green dress that she'd borrowed from the closet down in Erik's domain. This was in part because her cloak, which was black with forest green trim, would go the best with it and it was extremely cold outside.

"Ah, mademoiselle Juliet, you look ravishing as usual," Gaston said grandly when Juliet reappeared. "Shall we go?"

_No,_ Juliet said silently, but what came out of her mouth was, "Yes."

They went to a fancy restaurant that Juliet would have never even dreamed of eating at, so high were the prices. The food was most likely wonderful, but Juliet couldn't tell because it all tasted like sawdust in her mouth. Pointless conversation was exchanged, and she was not ashamed to admit that on more than one occasion, she had made a comment that would end certain conversations and either keep another one from starting, or start a new one.

"Well, that was delicious," Gaston said, setting his napkin on his plate so that it was immediately whisked away by one of the many waiters. Juliet did the same and her plate was taken as well. Chopin's _Waltz in A flat Major_ began to be played by the orchestra.

"Yes, it was," Juliet agreed.

"You're a bit quiet this evening, mademoiselle, are you feeling alright?" he inquired, his countenance morphing to one of concern.

"Oh, I'm fine, I'm just feeling a bit nervous is all," Juliet replied, twisting her fingers together beneath the table.

"This is such a beautiful song," Gaston said, nodding his head in time to the music. He looked toward the dancing couples. "Would you like to dance?" he asked, getting to his feet.

"I'm not much for waltzing, but thank you for the offer, monsieur," she said, hoping this would deter him. She was wrong.

"Oh, it's so easy to learn, though!" he exclaimed. "Come, I'll show you." He took her by both hands and led her onto the dance floor gently. "Now, you just put this hand here, and this hand here... and the steps just go like this!" Soon, the pair was gliding across the dance floor. Gaston appeared to be enjoying himself, but Juliet couldn't say the same. For just an instant, she found herself wishing that she was dancing with Erik instead. _Where on Earth did that come from_? She wondered, shaking her head slightly.

When the song ended, they parted to clap for the orchestra. A much slower song began to play and Gaston's arms snaked around Juliet's waist, a foreign and rather unwelcome sensation. Still, she felt it would be rude to pull away and run out of the restaurant screaming at the top of her lungs, so she allowed herself to dance with him. He was a good dancer, it was a shame he didn't have a personality to match. Near the end of the dance, he pulled away from her slightly and gazed down at her, deep blue eyes locking with brown.

Suddenly, his lips were crashing down on hers in a painful, forced kiss. When he pulled away, he whispered, "Keep all the secrets you like from me, mademoiselle. I'll find out what you're hiding sooner or later." And with that, he pulled his arms from around her and disappeared into the shadows.

Juliet's blood ran cold. Somehow, he knew. And she didn't know why, but she realized that this was extremely dangerous knowledge for him to have.

**A/N: Aaaaannnnnddddd, fin! The finish of the chapter, that is. The next one should be up fairly soon! If I really work on it, it might even be up by the beginning of next week, but that would be pushing it a bit.**

**Review? :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Not really much to say on this end. Other than the fact that the Christmas chapter might be a bit late in coming. I have a bit farther to go to get there than I thought I would. But fear not, readers! It'll be up by the end of the month, or the end of the year, depending on how look at it.**

**Oh, and one more thing. It was brought to my attention by my reviewer, MusicOverMatter, that kissing was unlikely to have happened in an opera performance. It's true, it was unlikely, but since _Carmen _is such a lust-driven opera, I think I'll plead to creative liberty and leave it in. Pardon the historical inaccuracy.**

_"Keep all the secrets you like from me, mademoiselle. I'll find out what you're hiding sooner or later."_

Juliet was left rooted to the spot in the middle of the dance floor. Thoughts flurried through her head in a massive, snowstorm-esque fashion. She didn't know for sure who or what could have possibly alerted him to the fact that she was keeping secrets... _the mirror incident,_ Juliet remembered, internally groaning.

She would have to be far more careful. Compromising Erik's safety was simply not an option.

Even though she had vowed to be more cautious, Juliet found herself spending nearly all of her sparse free time with Erik. As he slowly began to get better, she spent less time being his nurse and more time just being there. As it was an opera, there were very few spoken lines but Juliet practiced them in front of him sometimes to get his feedback on her delivery strength. She took care not to sing, though. Music of any sort still caused him a lot of pain.

By the end of the two weeks, Erik was nearly better. His illness had left him somewhat weak, however. "You're a fine actress," he told her the night before the rehearsals. She was practicing her lines and he was sketching something on a pad of paper.

"Thank you," she said in surprise. He didn't exactly seem like a person inclined to praise very often. "You don't mind that I've been spending quite a lot of time down here, do you?" Erik quirked an eyebrow in question.

"Well, I'll admit that it's taken some getting used to, not being the only one capable of human speech most of the time—" At this, Ayesha meowed loudly and leapt onto Erik's knees to stare at him in the face. Juliet laughed at her irritably twitching tail. "You're a fine listener, Ayesha, but let's be honest. You rather lack the capability of speechmaking." He scratched the cat's ears, soothing her somewhat. "But," he continued. "It's been quite nice, surprisingly."

"I never thought I'd be making conversation with an Opera Ghost," Juliet chuckled lightly.

Erik allowed himself a rare smile. "And what are your thoughts on it?"

"You're definitely not as frightening as you make yourself out to be," she replied, curling up on the plush, black couch in Erik's sitting room.

"Dear me, I've been letting my composure slip, then," Erik joked. Juliet looked mildly astonished. Thus far, Erik had only ever been drily humorous, never earnestly joking.

"It would seem so," Juliet quipped, feeling slightly drowsy from the warmth of the fire. She'd been working hard lately and hadn't had much sleep in the past few days. Her head nodded closer and closer to the paper of her script...

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Around nine-thirty, Erik looked up from his work to see that Juliet had fallen asleep on top of her musical score and script. She was crumpled over in a position that Erik knew from experience would be murder in the morning.

Suddenly unsure of what to do, he hesitantly made his way over to and quickly and gently straightened her out. He had been planning on waking her up, but she looked far to peaceful to allow him to do it without feeling guilty about it.

Possibly because of the large amount of sleep he'd gotten while sick, sleep was dancing around out of his reach. Sighing, he pulled a book off the shelf and settled into his favorite armchair—a present a number of years ago from Antoinette Giry—and soon felt the furry warmth of Ayesha settle on his feet. The next hour or so was fairly uneventful.

Erik was just beginning to get drowsy when a shrill, pained scream sliced through the air roughly. His head snapped up to see Juliet writhing on the couch, wailing and crying out.

He was on his feet and striding across the room before he realized that he had no idea how to deal with this situation. _Do something you idiot! _His mind yelled at him. Placing a nervous hand on her shoulder, her cautiously shook her. "Juliet, wake up, you're having a nightmare." _Well, of course she is,_ he thought in self-exasperation. _People don't often scream when they're having good dreams._ He shook her shoulder a bit harder. "Mademoiselle, wake up!"

Suddenly, she shot straight up, her eyes wet and wild. "Lola—" she gasped, staring straight past Erik in fear and hysteria.

"Mademoiselle, you were dreaming," Erik said, delicately sitting down beside her.

"Who, what—" she sputtered for a few seconds more before utterly breaking down into shoulder-shaking sobs, right into Erik's chest. She slumped against him, her fingers curling loosely around his lapels as though trying to anchor herself so she wouldn't float away back into the dream world. Erik froze, completely out of his depth yet again. Slowly, he put a hand on her back and patted gently, waiting for her sobs to subside. A warm, wet spot appeared on his shirt, but he didn't really mind.

After an undefined length of time, Juliet appeared to run out of tears. Hiccuping slightly, she pulled away from him and scooted over to the far end of the sofa, wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry," she croaked in a tear-clogged voice.

Erik waved it off, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly. "Who's Lola?" he finally asked, wondering too late if it had been a tactless question.

"She was a friend," Juliet said in a flat, small voice.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

"Why do you ask that?" she inquired, wiping her eyes again and examining her nails.

"Perhaps because you started screaming in your sleep and you just spent the better part of ten minutes crying into my jacket," Erik replied in exasperation. Women were strange creatures. They didn't mind being comforted, but it was like pulling teeth to get them to tell you what was wrong.

"She died, are you satisfied?" Juliet said, a muddle of emotions flashing through her expressive brown eyes. Erik looked away, feeling ashamed of himself. Damn his prying nature.

A long, stuffy silence ensued. Erik, for one of the first times in his life, was lost for words. What to say? What could he possibly say? _I'm sorry _seemed so weak, and asking how was definitely out of the question.

"Morphine," Juliet blurted out at last. Erik glanced at her out of the corner of his eye in question. "She died of a morphine overdose," she repeated. "She was addicted, I was trying to help her quit. And it was all my fault." One single tear welled up brightly in her eye.

"An addiction is no one's fault but the person addicted," Erik said, turning to look at her. "It's not possible for you to be at fault." Her sensitivity to his talk of needing the drug and her willingness to help him was beginning to make at least a little sense now.

"Isn't it?" she asked in a voice that sounded like a thin pane of glass trying to hold back a tidal wave. Fighting a losing battle against a swell of emotion. "Tell me one thing, Erik. If you had been trying to help your friend get over an addiction and they died because you left the room for just a moment to make them some soup and you found them with an empty syringe in their hand from a secret stash of the drug, how would that make you feel? If you knew, just _knew_ if you hadn't left the room, hadn't left their side for even an instant, waited for someone to be with them while you were in the kitchen, would you truthfully be able to say that you didn't think you were the reason you found their cold, dead, body on the floor? I don't think so." She stood up and began to walk away.

"Juliet, wait—" Erik ran after her, lightly latching onto her arm to pull her back to him. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm very sorry." Her words had sliced him to his core.

She pulled out of his grasp. "So am I," she whispered, disappearing before Erik could do anything else.

When she was gone, Erik punched a pillow with a muffled curse, sending it flying across the room. Every time something seemed to be taking a turn for the better, he just _had_ to open his big mouth, didn't he?" Or do something monumentally idiotic? Giovanni and his daughter, Christine, and now Juliet— Maybe it would have been better for all involved if the gypsies had just killed him and been done with it. For who could ever love a Devil's Child?

One thing was for sure, sleep was not coming tonight.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"I'm telling you, Phillipe, I think that monster is still alive," Gaston tapped the table for emphasis, taking a swig of his heavy, amber colored ale. It was late and the two men were in a quiet, well-to-do pub in Paris. Neither were drunk, at least in the traditional sense, on alcohol. What they _were_ drunk on was a powerful, all-consuming need for revenge.

"Raoul never did say if he was dead or not, he just said that they'd barely escaped with their lives," Phillipe mused, tracing idle patterns on the wooden table with his index finger. A lock of dark brown hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it away.

"In Christine's dressing room, did Raoul say if there was a storage compartment behind the mirror?" Gaston asked, folding his hands across the tabletop.

"No, I don't—" Phillipe stopped, slate gray eyes growing ever so slightly wider. "In _Christine's_ dressing room, did you say?" he repeated the question.

"Yes," Gaston said slowly, not seeing the point.

"Why do you ask that particular question?" Phillipe looked positively strange now.

"You remember I told you about Mademoiselle Juliet Leroux, don't you?"

"The new prima donna? Yes. I don't blame you for pursuing her, she's a lovely young thing." A brief, lecherous smile crossed the younger vicomte's face. "Why do you ask?"

"That's her dressing room now. I took her to dinner a few weeks ago. When I went to collect her for rehearsals, she was closing the mirror as though it were on some sort of hinge. She said it was like a closet, I'm not entirely convinced of that fact." Gaston flicked a bead of moisture from the glass holding his drink.

"Now that you mention it, I believe Raoul _did_ say something about a passageway to that lair from Christine's room. I can't be sure of it, though. I'll wire him tonight before I return home." Phillipe stood up. "Good evening, _mon ami._ I believe we may be one step closer to our revenge."

Gaston pulled his cloak over his shoulders in preparation to leave. "Good evening," he murmured, setting out into the dimly lit streets of Paris. It was harshly, bitingly cold, but he didn't feel it. Inside, he was lit with the fire of being that much closer to revenge. That much closer to claiming what was his.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Juliet woke the next morning with butterflies in her stomach. Today was the first day of all-cast rehearsals, off score, off book. She couldn't afford to make any mistakes. She looked over to her bedside table and saw a beautiful red rose and a cream-colored envelope lying beneath it. A shiver of adrenaline ran through her. Someone had been there while she slept.

Careful not to prick her finger on the rose, Juliet pulled the note free and opened the envelope. In elegant script it simply read, _Good luck. ~OG (Erik)_ A smile touched her lips and she poked the letter into a drawer. She knew he was trying to apologize for upsetting her the night before. It was touching.

Wiggling into her rehearsal garb, Juliet headed for the stage. Thankfully, her walk there was blissfully Gaston-free. She was able to breathe freely all the way there, but as soon as she got on the stage her heart began to pound again. Gaston, in all of his sinister glory, was chatting casually with Monsieur Andre. Without breaking his stride, his eyes traveled to Juliet and focused in on her like a homing beacon. She ignored it and proceeded to go over to the ballet bar and stretch for a bit.

"_Bonjour,_ Juliet," Meg said, putting her leg on the bar and stretching her upper body while Juliet brushed up on her pirouettes.

"_Bonjour,_" she replied, focusing on proper leg placement. "Ready?"

"Of course, are you?" Meg arched an eyebrow, her question going beyond Juliet's readiness in her singing and line memorization.

"To sing and act? Yes," said Juliet, practicing her splits. "But singing and acting with _him?_ That's another story altogether." As she spoke, she kept a wary eye on the wily leading man. Even though she was discreet he caught her eye and began to come over to her.

"Well, speak of the devil," Meg muttered, swinging her leg down from the bar. "Here he comes now."

Juliet made an attempt to slink away, but he caught her by the wrists, drawing her far too close to him for comfort. "_Bonjour, mon cherie,_ are you ready for full cast rehearsals today?"

"_Bonjour,_ Gaston," she said, trying not to sigh in exasperation. "Yes, I am. Are you?"

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "When one has such a lovely costar, one's job is so much easier." He smiled at her, but it came across as more of a leer than anything.

"Thank you," Juliet said, extracting herself from his grasp. "I must go warm up my voice, excuse me."

Midway through her vocal warmup, a cry of irritation and disbelief exploded from where the managers stood. "I thought we were done with these blasted things!" Firmin burst out, waving an envelope with a blood-red seal on it in the air angrily. Madame Giry snatched the letter out of his hand and opened it quickly.

"My dear gentlemen," she read. "Have you missed me? I am certainly not dead, no, I've merely taken a bit of a break. I just have a few notes to make before rehearsal starts. The dancers _must_ have more work done on their technique. To say that it is sloppy would be an understatement of atrocious proportions. The first clarinet player should either learn how to tune his instrument or go in search of a new job. The sound is simply horrid. Our harp player must refine his technique as well so that he looks and sounds less like a monkey has been hired to do his job. And finally, our Don Jose. I have no qualms with your talent, sir. None at all. However, I _do_ have a bit of a problem with the fact that you continue to pester and pursue the prima donna when she has made it clear that she will continue to reject your attentions so long as you give them to her. When a woman says no she usually means no, monsieur. That is all. I shall be watching. Your humble friend, OG." Madame Giry lowered the paper slowly.

Juliet saw that she was attempting not to smile and she could feel a chuckle being held back in her own chest. Now would not be the appropriate time to smile. Erik's warning was evidently taken to heart, the dancers were exactly on point in their technique, if not a bit stiff with nerves. The clarinetist took a full five minutes before rehearsal began to tune his instrument and was quite significantly more in tune. Clearly miffed, the harp player improved his playing, but with a scowl. Gaston took his little message the hardest of all. It had been a pin prick in his ego and that was something he could evidently not stand. He ignored the warnings and continued to bother Juliet in their offstage moments.

"Mademoiselle, he is just a ghost. What could he possibly do to me?" the leading man had sneered when she'd reminded him of the Phantom's note.

"Be that as it may, we don't have time to stand around like this," Juliet said. "The final scene is coming up." That was the one where Don Jose, in a fit of jealousy, stabbed Carmen in the chest and she died in his arms. They had a collapsible knife, but Juliet was a little scared that the knife might get replaced with one that couldn't retreat into it's handle.

"Of course," he said.

The scene was nearly flawless, but the flash of real jealousy through Gaston's eyes as he whisked her out of the man playing Escamillo's arms made her think that he wasn't thinking like his character, but rather like himself.

"Oh, bravo, you two!" Monsieurs Frimin and Andre said. "This is sure to be our finest opera yet."

Juliet, feeling Gaston's possessive hands on her hips, could agree to that. It would be well performed. But nothing else would be quite right.

**A/N: Ta da! Hope you liked it!**

**Review? :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello, readers! I recently got to thirty reviews this morning and it absolutely made my day. I've had the warm fuzzies all day, which is nice because it was my first day back to school after an extended Christmas break and everyone looked like zombies.**

**Cliffhanger warning! Alert, alert!**

Erik growled low in his chest watching Gaston and Juliet together on the stage. It was clear that the leading man was smitten with her, but it was unclear what she felt about him. That was bothersome. There was always someone else, wasn't there? Certainly an Opera Ghost could be a fine companion when he chose to be, but would anyfemale _ever_ consider _anything—_

"Monsieur, your hands are wandering past what could be considered casual," he boomed, using his spectral voice. A satisfied chuckle escaped his lips as the leading man jumped a foot in the air and pulled away from Juliet, scanning the walls in frustration as though he could detect where Erik was. He allowed the laugh to be heard by everyone and saw Juliet look up, suppressing a smile.

Rehearsal ended and Erik amused himself by opening and closing the curtains of the stage as the cast attempted to get past them. His fun had to be abandoned however, when Monsieur Firmin got tangled up in the curtains and he was forced to stop for fear that the dolt would send them crashing down from the rafters with his wriggling.

Juliet was left as the only one on the stage as she packed up her things. "You did well," he told her.

She pressed a hand to her heart and was evidently trying mightily not to scream. "You need to stop doing that," she said shakily. "You're going to scare someone to death one of these days."

Erik fidgeted a bit before answering. "Would you be surprised if I told you that's happened before?" he asked, remembering the portly little rope puller from a few years ago. He hadn't meant to, it really had been an accident.

She laughed drily. "No, it doesn't. Listen, I've got to go. It's Meg Giry's birthday tonight and we're having a dinner tonight with some friends."

"Well, have a nice time," Erik said, wondering why on earth he thought she might have wanted to spend the evening with him again. He _had_ just had a bit of a spat with her, after all.

"I don't want to be late, I should get going," she said, picking up her bag. "Goodbye, Erik." Erik watched her walk away. Smoothing his suit front down, he journeyed back down to his lair. He had a novel he'd been meaning to finish anyway.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

"Come on Julie, we're going to be late! Our reservations are for ten minutes from now!" called Juliet's friend Emilie, a girl with light reddish brown hair and pensive hazel eyes.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming!" Juliet laughed, brushing some powder onto her nose quickly.

Together, the group ran through the slushy streets, giggling and talking all the way. "Oh, yuck! I've gotten slush in my shoes!" Meg exclaimed, hopping on one foot and trying to eradicate the unwelcome substance.

"Get it when we get to the restaurant Meg, we'll be late!" Angie, one of the top ballerinas with dark, honey blonde hair and emerald eyes shouted, holding her skirts above the mess. When they got to the door the girls tried to compose themselves, brushing their hair back into place and smoothing their dresses.

"Good evening, mademoiselles," a waiter said, bowing low to the group of girls.

"Good evening, monsieur," Juliet replied. "We have a reservation tonight under the name Giry."

He checked his list and nodded. "Ah, yes. Come right this way." They followed him to a long, elegant wooden table with white place settings and delicate red roses. Juliet was reminded of the slightly wilted rose in her dressing room.

Over their first course, a creamy potato soup, Angie dropped the bombshell question that Juliet had been hoping to avoid but knew she wouldn't be able to. "So Juliet, what is this I hear about a relationship between you and Gaston?" Ears strained forward, all eyes were trained on her.

"Nothing, we're not in a relationship. I would hardly call us friends to be honest," she said, running her thumb over the handle of her soup spoon.

Sounds of disbelief issued from every girl except Meg, who cautiously averted her eyes. "Oh come now. We've all seen you two chatting backstage, him walking you to rehearsal, you even went to dinner a few weeks ago! You can't possibly say there's nothing more," Angie pressed, leaning toward a now fidgety Juliet.

_I guess you missed the fact that I've been trying to get myself as far away from him as possible at every given opportunity, then_. "Believe me, it's all been platonic," said Juliet. _At least for me, anyway._ "We thought it would be best if we knew more about each other, being costars and all."

Everyone groaned at this loss of potential gossip as the second course, Blanquette de Veau, one of Juliet's favorites, arrived. Silence briefly descended over the table as the girls began to eat.

Mara, a quiet girl with light blonde hair and blue doe eyes, spoke at last. "You all know Vicomte Phillipe de Chagny, right?" she asked, taking a delicate sip of water. A collective sigh went up from all the girls, even Meg this time.

"Of course, who doesn't?" Meg asked, stabbing the air with her fork for emphasis. "He is just _so_ charming," she sighed. Juliet let out a silent groan of protest. _Men are only charming until they make a pass at you_, she thought.

"What about him?" Emilie asked, bringing the conversation back to its original topic and pushing her food back and forth on her plate.

"He asked me to have lunch with him tomorrow," the girl said, blushing deeply. Exclamations of jealousy were audible.

"Oh, you're so lucky!" Angie sighed. "You'll tell us all about it, right?" Mara nodded in the affirmative, still faintly pink and looking a bit dazed as though she still couldn't believe that _the_ Vicomte Phillipe had asked her out. Gaston was good looking and all, but he lacked the status that Phillipe had.

Long after dinner was finished, the girls remained at the restaurant chatting about theatre life, boys, their busy schedules that never left any time for anything fun, and boys. They tended to talk about boys a lot. It was one of the most interesting topics they could think of.

"We've got another long rehearsal starting bright and early tomorrow, we should probably go back," Juliet said after awhile, standing and pulling her cloak over her shoulders. The other girls reluctantly agreed and they began to make their way back to the Opera House. She thought she'd imagined it, but Juliet couldn't shake the feeling that she'd seen Gaston and Phillipe in the same restaurant, deep in conversation.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Right after the rehearsal, Gaston felt an excited hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Phillipe standing before him, gray eyes gleaming with an emotion that could only be described as pure, mad excitement. Clearly, he had good news. Without saying hello, the young vicomte pressed a folded piece of paper into his hand urgently.

Sensing that it was a private matter, Gaston opened it quickly and out of sight of any passersby. His own heartbeat kicked up a few notches and a wicked grin spread across his face as he read the telegram.

_Yes, that's how that madman got Christine in the first place and that's how I got down there the second time. Why do you ask such a thing? ~Raoul._

He looked up at Phillipe and said, the smell of victory heavy in his nose, "That just leaves the planning, then.

They wandered over to the nearest restaurant and Phillipe used his rather significant influence and his deadly sweet personality to get them a table promptly. Neither man ordered much, just a salad and a glass of wine each.

"Finally, Armel will be avenged," Gaston murmured, fury igniting in his chest at the mere thought of the tragic fate of his little brother.

Armel Rosseau had been two years younger than Gaston. For what seemed like their whole lives, the pair was inseparable. They had each other's backs through the hierarchal tests of grade school and Gaston checked in frequently during his first year of university in the fall. However, when he returned home that Christmas he found that tragedy had struck the day before his arrival.

In an attempt to earn some pocket money and also save up for university, Armel had gotten a job as a rope boy at the Opera Populaire. As was every new stage hand, he was immediately warned of the monstrous Opera Ghost and the consequences of runnning afoul of him. Rosseau boys, however, rarely paid attention to warnings given and, being a curious boy, Armel joyfully explored the nooks and crannies of the establishment. Barely two weeks into his job, a shaken set builder found him hanging from the rafters right above center stage, swinging limply like a broken pendulum. His face bespoke that he had been frightened and horrified in his last moments in this world and there was a note clutched in his stiff, cold fingers.

It was not a suicide note like many people have when found in this way, though.

_When young boys roam where they should not and pay no heed to warnings given, consequences are to be expected. _

The note was not signed, but given the means of death and the handwriting, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the Phantom of the Opera had stolen the life of this poor boy. His coworkers and superiors mourned his loss. They had liked him and found him a nice, personable young man.

Gaston was beyond distraught at the loss of his beloved younger brother. He did not attend the funeral an spent nearly a week shut up in his room, only occasionally skulking down the stairs with bloodshot, glassy eyes to get a little food or water. Whispers surrounded the household that the elder son of the Rosseau family had gone mad with grief.

This was not entirely off the mark. Even Gaston's friends noticed when he came back to university that the boy was not the same person that had left. His temper was shorter, he was easily distracted, he spent increasing amounts of time by himself, and his grades began to fall drastically. It had gotten to the point that they snuck around his dormitory looking for a possible drug stash. They found nothing. Nothing except slips of paper with the singularly odd—to them, that is—phrase "Get the Opera Ghost" printed in bold handwriting on them. None of the other boys knew what to make of it.

The only one who seemed to understand was Vicomte Phillipe de Chagny. They were in the same year at university and Phillipe seemed to get the all-consuming need for revenge that had taken ahold of the young man. Instead of possibly taming down the obsession, the Vicomte fueled it. He listened to Gaston's increasingly mad plans and rather than rebuking such things, he gave him advice and constructive criticism. And, perhaps because of this, he was more vulnerable to anger at the Phantom when the business involving Christine and Raoul happened. Their endeavors began in earnest then. The Phantom of the Opera had to be stopped. For good.

"... Gaston, are you listening to me?" Gaston jumped a bit and shook his head to clear it. Phillipe was waving a hand in his face.

"Sorry, I just got lost in my thoughts," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Don't let it happen again," his friend said sternly. "As I was saying, we have a very narrow window of opportunity to do this right. Right after opening night is our best bet. Most people will leave quickly, but the stagehands will stay behind to get everything cleaned up. They're key, most of them were here when Armel was and liked him. Play the emotional card and you've got a small army to go with us. I don't fancy facing him alone, I'll say that much."

Gaston nodded in agreement to the statement. "Can't say I blame you. I don't either. We've been fed one too many horror stories, I think."

Phillipe took a long draught of his wine. "But, as you know, our biggest factor in this is Juliet. She's got the same look in her eye that Christine did. But it's a little different, I think. She'll do anything to ensure we don't hurt her precious Phantom and given her feelings and trust for you—" Gaston stopped Phillipe, holding up a finger.

"That would be the problem, Phillipe," he said uneasily. "I don't think she likes me very much _or_ trusts me. Why, I don't know. I've been the picture of charming, but our resident specter has told me in no uncertain terms to keep my hands off her."

Phillipe, however, did nothing but smile more widely. "That's almost to our advantage, though. He's jealous of you possibly spiriting the young mademoiselle away. If you do something to make him jealous, he'll be less likely to listen to any warnings the girl might give. And he'll be watching, mark my words."

"But what will I do to make him jealous?" Gaston asked, gazing into the depths of his wine glass.

"Use your imagination."

Gaston was still confused by one point, though. "You say she'll be giving him a warning? Why would that be? I didn't think she'd be coming with us..." he trailed off at the look on Phillipe's face.

"Think for a moment, _mon ami_," he said. "The passageway is through _her_ mirror. We don't know the way, but _she _does. Knowing the Phantom, there are sure to be scads of false tunnels and booby traps and _she'll _know exactly where they are."

"That's true, but she could very well be injured or killed down there and I don't wish either of those things to happen."

Phillipe looked darkly sinister and confident, never a good mix unless you were on his side. "Oh, there'll be no harm to her unless he doesn't cooperate," he murmured, spearing a vegetable savagely with his fork as if he imagined the Phantom's face to be on it. An unsure look from Gaston prompted him to add, "There's a price for everything. In his own sick, twisted way, he cares for her and doesn't wish her to be harmed in any way. The price for her life is his."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

After hours upon hours of rehearsals, opening night finally arrived. Juliet flitted around her dressing room getting ready and trying not succumb to the butterflies swooping around in her stomach gleefully. "Come on Juliet, calm down," she told herself in the mirror above her makeup desk. "Now is no time to have a breakdown. You'll do fine." She sighed loudly, putting the last pin in place. "And I'm talking to myself. Lovely."

She turned away to get one of her bracelets from her nightstand, but when she turned back, a surprise greeted her. Erik stood in front of the mirror. In her dressing room. Stifling a shriek, she asked, "How long have you been there?"

He shrugged. "Only a few seconds in here." She gave him a hard look. "I _was_ outside the mirror for awhile."

"_What?_" she yelped, feeling quite exposed.

Erik looked horrified at the very thought. "I averted my eyes when I needed to!" he protested. She giggled a little, somewhat hysterical. "I just wanted to give you these—" here, he produced a beautiful bouquet of red roses, "—and wish you luck."

"Thank you, Erik," she said, taking the roses and inhaling their intoxicating fragrance. She put them in a vase and put a bit of water in it. "I think I'll need it."

He shook his head, stepping a bit closer to her and briefly touching her hand. "You don't need luck, you just need confidence in yourself. You'll do fine." His voice was soft.

She looked at him gratefully. "Thank you," she whispered. "I supposed it'd be wrong to assume that you'll watch tonight?" she asked sadly.

He looked pensive, almost hesitant. "Maybe my heart is healed enough to sit through one opera."

She grinned widely at him, but then sobered. "Don't let anyone see you, though. No one would hesitate to put a few bullets in you."

"Mademoiselle, I'm a ghost. They never see me unless I want them to," he said confidently. "Go now, your public awaits."

Juliet took two steps and found herself rushing back to give Erik a brief, but heartfelt, hug. She thoroughly surprised the pair of them by doing it, and then she did something even more surprising. She kissed his cheek. It was soft and so quick you would miss it if you blinked but a kiss was a kiss.

Flushing deep pink, she rushed out of the room. _What did I just do?_ She asked herself.

Erik as always, was spot-on right. The performance went off without a hitch. The musicians were in tune, the dancers had spotless technique, the stage crew did exactly what they needed to, the chorus sang beautifully, and no words could describe the performance of Gaston and Juliet. They weren't just playing their characters, they _became_ their characters. The audience was in awe. They gasped, laughed, and a few got teary all in the right places. And best of all, for Juliet anyway, at the end the knife was still collapsible.

The audience was on their feet. Never before had they seen so much chemistry on stage. Juliet took her bows, but she scanned the audience in vain each time, looking for a white half-mask. It never happened, but she could tell he was there if not only for awhile.

As the crowd cleared up, Gaston approached her eagerly. "Oh, mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, pulling her into his arms until they were uncomfortably close together. "You were stunning, just beautiful!"

The gleam in his eyes worried her greatly. He looked like he was planning something. "Thank y—" she got no further than the first letter of her second word when his lips came crashing into hers passionately. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, forcing her mouth open with his tongue. Finally, she broke away and ran for her dressing room, head spinning dangerously, like a child's toy top and her heart was beating like a drum When she reached for the doorknob, a hand roughly spun her away and pinned her to the wall.

She couldn't see the face, but the menacing words that came out with a snarl made her blood freeze in her veins. "So, mademoiselle... how's your Phantom?"

**A/N: *dodges flying objects* Don't worry, the next chapter is almost done! I'll try to finish it very soon but in the meantime, don't kill me!**

**PS, the french meal I mentioned is made of this: "Veal that is cooked with carrots and onions and then served with a white, cream sauce."**

**Definitely not my cup of tea, but there you go.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I'm back! Ready for chapter 10? Oh my gosh, I just realized that this was chapter ten! :) Wow. Thank you so much, people who have reviewed this story. You're the ones who keep me going with it. There may be a teensy cliffhanger in this chapter, but not really.**

Erik watched in fascination at Juliet's performance. The music still made his heart twinge a little, but it wasn't as bad as it used to be. The young prima donna was excellent. Her voice soared away through the rafters and echoed hauntingly in the hearts of the audience, and Erik as well. His fingers kept straying to the cheek she had kissed. She'd actually _kissed _him. Right on the cheek. He could still feel the soft, gentle touch of her lips on his skin.

When it finished, the applause nearly shook the building down and he found himself getting to his feet and joining in. Grudgingly, he had to admit that the leading man was pretty good as well. Certainly, he was better than Piangi. During the bows, she looked as though she was searching for something. Perhaps... no, she was probably looking for a friend that had come.

In distaste, he watched Gaston approach her and embrace her, talking excitedly to her. He gave a bit of a growl of disapproval, but nothing could have prepared him for when he leaned in and _kissed _her... on her mouth. And he did it in front of the whole cast, _and _the audience, or what still remained in the theatre. It was as though he were claiming Juliet for his own right then and there. And the worst part about it was that she didn't push him away. Her eyes were closed, as were his.

Turning on his heel, Erik stormed back to his lair in a black, stormy mood. _Will you ever learn?_He asked himself angrily. _You don't get the girl or fall in love because there will _always _be someone else. Someone better. No matter what you do, you will always look like this. _He denied the urge that was begging him to punch a hard, unyielding object.

He was too absorbed in his thoughts and emotions to notice that Nadir was in his sitting room. "Did you see the performance, Erik? I've never seen anything quite like it," he trailed off at the thunderous look on his friend's face.

"Oh, I saw it," Erik growled. "I saw all of it." He strode into his room and slammed the door. He dropped into the seat at his writing desk and put his head in his hands. His newly, almost-healed heart was right back where it started when Chris—_she _had left him, falling to pieces and in jagged shards that made life in general painful.

This, he thought, was the perfect example of why music shouldn't be a part of his life. It only brought heartbreak and pain.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_"So, mademoiselle, how's your phantom?"_

Juliet gasped, struggling against the rough hands that held her captive against the wall. She knew that voice, now. "Phillipe?"

The man merely pressed her to the wall harder. "What's the matter, mon_ cherie,_ cat got your tongue? I said, how's your phantom? Is he doing well?" he leered frighteningly at her.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," she spat, regaining control of her thought capabilities somewhat. Suddenly, a cold, sharp pressure was held to the warm skin of her throat. She hazarded a glance down and received confirmation that there was indeed a long, wicked-looking knife blade pressed to her throat. Her heart began to beat faster than she thought was possible.

"Haven't you?" he asked quietly. "Perhaps this will change your mind." A lot of angry yelling and tramping feet sounded from far off down the corridor. An evil smile curled the corners of his lips up. "Oh, good. Our entourage is almost here."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Gaston saw a bunch of the lower rank stage hands standing around smoking and knew this was his chance. He touched his lips briefly, remembering the kiss. _You wanted me to use my imagination, Phillipe? There you go, I used it._ He pulled himself together and put his most persuasive face on.

"Hello, gentlemen," he said, sauntering over to their huddle. They eyed him suspiciously.

"What do you want, Gaston?" Henri, one of the more outspoken, volatile men of the group asked bluntly.

"Only a moment of your time," he said smoothly. The vibe he got from them was a thoroughly unimpressed one.

"Alright then, you've got a moment," said a short, scrawny man he couldn't remember the name of. "Make it fast, Rosseau."

"You all remember Armel, my brother, right?" he asked, inserting a note of hesitancy into his voice for good measure.

"Yeah, he was a good kid. I liked him," an older man with a bit of a potbelly said. "Shame that damned Opera Ghost got him." The others nodded in firm agreement.

"He's picking us off one by one," another man with copious amounts of ear hair declared. "It could be any of us that's next!" The men were getting a bit rowdy, agreeing with the man and some were even saying that he needed to be stopped at last. Gaston grinned to himself. It couldn't have been working out better.

"Part of the reason I came over here was to say that I've got a bit of a problem, or rather, our new prima donna does. The ghost is so good at manipulating to get what he wants that he's brainwashed Mademoiselle Leroux into thinking he's a good, honest person." Gasps of outrage were heard throughout the group. They liked the prima donna, she was always nice to them if they had a chance to talk to her. "And she doesn't even know she's brainwashed! You don't want her to end up like Christine, do you?" he asked, going for the inflation tactic.

"No!" was the roared response.

"Do you want to stop the monster once and for all?" he yelled.

"_YES!_" the overwhelming response was just what Gaston had been looking for.

"Then take up your arms and let's go!" he bellowed as the men scrambled for anything they could find. Rope cutters, rope, burning candles, knives, anything that you could potentially hurt someone with. This wasn't fair, Gaston realized, eight men against one. It was a good thing Gaston was not a fair man.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The stomping and shouting grew ever nearer and Juliet fought against every instinct she possessed to scream at the top of her lungs for help. Whoever those people were, they weren't going to help her. They weren't on her side.

Her question as to who the people were was shortly answered. Gaston appeared, face alight with a determination that made the initial one she had seen pale in comparison. He brought with him a crowd of stagehands. Every single one of them carried a weapon of sorts and malice saturated their expressions heavily. His eyes fell on her and his lips twisted into a frightening imitation of a smile. "Ah, the lady of the hour. Don't worry, my dear. We'll soon free you of the mind control of that monster."

"He's not a monster!" Juliet protested against her better judgment. "He's not the one with a knife pressed to a woman's throat."

"Yes, but you're not dead, are you?" Phillipe asked her, his tone indicating that that particular fact could change if she so desired. "If the Phantom had gotten you like this, you would be dead now, no questions asked. Just look at what happened to Buquet, Piangi, and very nearly my own brother just to name a few."

Juliet's anger got the best of her and what tumbled out of her mouth next was not exactly the smartest thing to say when someone has a knife blade pressed to your neck. "Your brother is an arrogant fop who pays no heed to warnings or advice he is given," she snapped venomously.

"Was _my_ brother an arrogant fop as well?" Gaston asked. "He was merely curious about his new workplace and was killed heartlessly for it."

"I never knew anything about your brother!" Juliet exclaimed.

"Enough talk!" one of the stagehands shouted. She recognized him as Marcel, one of the ones who was kind to her. "Let's get going!"

"Going with what?" Juliet dared ask, even though she thought she knew the answer.

Gaston smiled grimly. "We're going to pay your Phantom friend a visit and you're going to show us the way."

"And just how do you figure I'm going to do that?" she asked, trying to sound as brave as possible. What Gaston said next made her heart stop.

"Through the passage in your mirror." At gunpoint, Juliet was made to unlock the door and make her way over to the mirror, knowing that a wrong step would result in her becoming a human shish-kebob.

As she opened the mirror her hands began to shake and tremble ans she nearly collapsed. _I'm so sorry, Erik_, she thought, tears beading in her eyes as Phillipe and Gaston took ahold of her arms firmly. She kicked and struggled, but the return of the cool metal to her skin soon stopped any wild motions.

She knew she had only one chance to give Erik an advance warning and she took it. "Erik!" she screamed. "There are men coming who want to kill you! Help—" A rough, calloused hand clamped over Juliet's mouth, choking off her words.

"So that's what he told you his name is?" Gaston chuckled, a low, humorless rumble. "Mademoiselle, you should know that monsters such as him do not have names."

He looked her in the eye and she gave him the darkest glare she could manage given present circumstances. If they let her go for even a second, she was going to fight. Perhaps to the death. It was her mistake and she would take the repercussions.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Nadir looked up from the book he was reading, one he had borrowed from Erik's shelf. A faint scream echoed through the cavernous expanse that served as Erik's living space. It sounded like Juliet's voice. He caught Erik's name and the words 'kill', 'you', and 'help'. Then he heard her voice brutally cut off which was almost worse than the scream. He got the gist of the message though. There were men that wanted to kill Erik and they evidently had Juliet with them._ Ransom, probably, _he thought, feeling slightly sick to his stomach.

"Erik!" he yelled, running down the hallway and bursting into his darkened room. Didn't the man _ever_ have it properly lit in there? He looked wearily up at him.

"What do you want, Nadir?" he asked quietly.

"A group of men have got Juliet and they're coming down here—" Erik butted in.

"She probably brought them down here, I saw her kissing that leading man, Gaston—" he began to say, but now it was Nadir's turn to interrupt.

"Erik, the day you let me finish a sentence properly will be one for joyous celebration," he remarked in irritation. "For God's sake, man, she was screaming for help! To _you_ for help," he said pointedly, giving Erik a significant look.

Something in his friend's eyes changed ever so slightly. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"As sure as I'm standing here," Nadir said firmly, impatient. "Now come on, we've got to—" This time it wasn't Erik interrupting Nadir. A group of stagehands burst through the semi-closed door and converged on the two men before they had time to think.

"Two birds with one stone, eh?" one of them called as Nadir and Erik were forcefully bound together, back to back, by the wrists. "We got the Opera Ghost _and_ his accomplice all in one go!"

Nadir felt a tapping sensation on his palm. Erik was tapping a message in morse code. _Don't do or say anything until we figure out the gravity of the situation. I think I can get us untied. _He gave a faint nod in response as he felt Erik's nimble fingers going to work on the coarse rope.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Ambushed in my own home... this is embarrassing,_ Erik thought as he and Nadir were dragged through the hall toward the main expanse. He worked at the rope binding their wrists, loosening and untying. The stagehands knew how to use rope, he'd give them that. But to his credit, so did he. However, his efforts stopped completely when they came into view of the rest of the group. Two men, one he recognized as Gaston and the other looking suspiciously like a de Chagny, had Juliet between them. A hand was over her mouth and a knife pressed to her throat, but she still stood tall and proud. Her composure slipped when she saw Erik, though. Tears beaded in her eyes.

Gaston smiled widely. "Ah, monsieurs. How nice of you to join us. Now we have everyone here. I assume you two gentlemen know her?"

"Would you care to explain why you're holding an innocent woman captive?" Erik asked, trying to rise above the red haze of anger that was beginning to settle in his eyes.

"Tell me, monsieur," Gaston's voice rang out, sharp and clear. "Do you have any recollection of a young boy named Armel Rosseau?"

It was the young stagehand that had managed to find him and then remove his mask blatantly. He had wondered why that last name had sounded so familiar. Now he knew.

Still, he did not acknowledge that fact. No sense in letting him win this quickly. "The name seems familiar, why?"

The leading man's face became as hard as granite. "Perhaps it's because you killed him without a thought," he spat.

"Oh I assure you, there were many thoughts in my head at that time," Erik said cooly. "But you have not yet answered my question. Why are you restraining Mademoiselle Leroux in such a manner?"

This time, the other man spoke. His voice was like poisoned honey. Sweet, yet deadly. "Think for a moment, monsieur," he said softly. "Look around you and think." He paused for a moment to give Erik time. He didn't need to, he knew exactly why Juliet was there and it made him sick.

"Oh yes, of course," he murmured sarcastically. "Two men with holding a knife to a woman's neck have the audacity to come into my home and give me a choice of my life or hers and have the absolute audacity to call _me_ a savage beast. How quaint."

"Then you know what you need to do?" Gaston asked, tightening his hold on Juliet's arm and making her whimper quietly. Erik silently attempted to burn a hole in his head with his eyes.

"Of course I do," he said, finishing with the rope but holding it in place, tapping a quick message to Nadir. _On my mark._

"Do you agree, then? Your life for hers, monsieur. It's the only way to save her," the other man purred. "I assure you, I won't hesitate to dye this blade crimson should you fail to do what we ask."

At that moment, Juliet bit Gaston's hand and when he drew it away with a shriek of pain and a torrent of curses, she cried, "_No,_ Erik! Don't, please don't!" The leading man smacked her across the face and she cried out in pain, falling silent, tears tracing down her cheeks. Erik nearly tore the man to shreds right then and there.

Erik injected a note of defeat into his voice. "May I... may I just say goodbye to her properly?" he asked quietly. The men holding her looked as though they might say no, but murmurings from their small army prompted this response.

"Make it short," Gaston snapped, releasing the girl from his grasp. Her legs were quivering so badly that she collapsed when they let her go, but she managed to get to her feet and wrap her arms around his waist tightly.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, tears soaking the front of his jacket. He leaned is head down so that his mouth was beside her ear.

"When I say _now,_ get out of the way as fast as you can," he murmured. She looked up at him questioningly, her eyes puffy from crying.

"What—" she whispered, but he cut her off.

"_Now!_" he bellowed and Juliet launched herself sideways, colliding with the bottom of the ruined organ. In the confusion that ensued, she appeared to go unnoticed. Nadir, not inclined to violence unless he deemed it absolutely necessary, fought his way out of the group of stagehands with his small, yet sharp rapier that he kept constantly on his belt.

Erik was suddenly grateful for the fact that he'd gotten into the habit of keeping a Punjab Lasso in his pocket at all times as he pulled it out. Remembering his promise to Nadir, he tried his hardest to avoid killing the men, but occasionally one of them would be fighting too hard to get around it.

One of them, a particularly thick headed idiot, tripped in a clumsy execution of an evasion and dragged a bunch of candles across a tapestry. Immediately, the fabric caught and began to burn. Most of his domain was made of stone, but it was covered in enough wood, cloth and other potentially flammable things to be considered a fire hazard.

While locked in combat with a stage hand who looked like he might have been related to Joseph Buquet, Erik caught a fleeting glimpse of Juliet still hiding under the organ and saw that Nadir had managed to fight himself free. The flames were growing in size and intensity, making it impossibly hot.

"Nadir, saddle Caesar!" he shouted between blows. The Persian took off without another word, leaving Erik to deal with the two men left standing; Gaston and the unnamed man. _Definitely a de Chagny,_ Erik thought as Gaston lunged at him.

"Have you seen your life flash before your eyes yet, freak?" he grunted, narrowly evading the Punjab.

Erik sidestepped a blow to his abdomen, trying to get behind Gaston. "Many times before this, but not now," he growled, managing to force the rope around the man's neck. He began to constrict it, watching his eyes start to bulge and his face slowly begin to turn a vibrant shade of red. The animalistic bloodlust he tried so hard to repress was on him in full force. He would pay for the pain caused to Juliet in blood, but not his own.

A loud scream diverted Erik's attention. His head whipped over to see Juliet sinking slowly to the floor with an expression of numb surprise on her face as she clutched her side. Red liquid seeped through her fingers. The de Chagny man stood over her, raising the knife he had been holding earlier. It was no longer silver, but stained an ugly color; the color of Juliet's blood.

The anger burst forward into full force in his mind, like a rush of water smashing a dam to bits. With a roar of anger, he flung the weak body of Gaston aside and launched himself at the man.

This time, his aim was true and he got the rope around the de Chagny's neck quickly. Lifting him off the ground, he made short work of snapping his neck. "You can't fight a ghost, monsieur," he snarled, hearing the bone snap cleanly. "Because you can't fight something that does not exist." Throwing the limp body aside, Erik's full attention switched back to Juliet. Running to her, he gathered her up in his arms.

"Juliet, can you hear me?" he asked, begging. "Please, say something." Her head merely lolled to the side and he saw the horrible gash cutting through her side. It was still bleeding heavily. Carefully shifting her, he pulled off his jacket and pressed it into her side. Things were beginning to collapse into piles of burning embers, making moving difficult. He knew it would spread to the Opera House above, but that wasn't his primary concern at that moment.

"Nadir!" he yelled, coughing and choking on the smoke. "Nadir! Where are you?"

His friend's reply was faint. "Over in the stable passageway! Hurry!"  
He held Juliet close to his chest and ran. When he got there, he handed Juliet gently to a stunned Nadir so he could get on Caesar's back before taking Juliet into his arms again. To his immense relief, Ayesha poked her head out of one of the saddlebags. She must've come in there when the commotion started. _Smart girl,_ he thought briefly.

"What happened to her?" Nadir gasped.

"One of the men holding her got her with his knife," he replied tersely. "I'm taking her to Antoinette's home. She requires more medical attention than I can give her. Get doctor Frederic, he knows Antoinette."

"But—" he protested.

"Just go!" he barked, spurring Caesar into a fast canter, holding the limp girl tight against his chest so she wouldn't be jarred.

She was not going to die. Not after she had saved his life.

**A/N: Bum bum BUUUUUMMMM! I really didn't mean to leave a cliffhanger this time, it just sort of happened. Forgive me.**

**Did anyone catch what the reference was when Erik mentioned paying in blood? I'm just curious if I have any Bob Dylan fans in my readership. :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hello, all! Wow, forty reviews! :D You all make me so happy. The next chapter will be the much-anticipated Christmas chapter, which is a month late in coming. Many apologies.**

Erik pulled Caesar to a stop in the back of Antoinette's house. Murmuring to him to stay put, he gathered Juliet into his arms again and strode to the back door.

_Please don't answer the door, Meg,_ Erik prayed, knocking insistently. Thankfully, it was Antoinette. Her eyes widened a considerable degree. "Erik, is that—" she asked, her breath catching in her throat.

"Yes, she's been hurt quite badly, Nadir is getting Doctor Frederic," he said impatiently. "I'll explain more once the doctor has come and gone. I don't want him to see me." Going into the house, he gently laid Juliet down on a couch and disappeared out the back door to tie Caesar up properly.

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Nadir raced through the streets toward the doctor's office, heart thumping in his chest. Once on the doorstep, he raised his fist, panting heavily, and hammered at the door. Almost instantly, the doctor opened the door.

"Good evening, monsieur. How may I help you?" he asked pleasantly.

"Yes, a young woman was attacked by a man with a knife and she needs medical attention immediately," he said in a rush, eager to get going. The doctor, a young man with longish brown hair, inquisitive brown eyes, and a friendly demeanor, dashed inside to snatch up his bag and then the two leapt into his carriage. The doctor instructed the driver to go at top speed.

On the way, doctor Frederic asked questions. "How deep is the wound?"

"Quite, unfortunately," Nadir responded, fiddling with the cuff of his jacket nervously. His greatest fear was that they were going to be too late.

"Bleeding a lot?"

"Very much so."

"How did it happen?" Nadir flinched imperceptibly, but was spared from having to answer at the sight of the burning Opera House. Hungry orange and yellow flames licked at the building, consuming it.

"Mon dieu," the doctor breathed. Thankfully, the firemen had already gone to work on the inferno.

At Madame Giry's house, the doctor and Nadir jumped out of the carriage and ran to the front door. The ballet mistress was waiting for them. "Come in, please," she said, her mouth a thin, white line of worry. The doctor quickly located Juliet and examined the deadly wound. His face paled considerably, the color seeming to leach out of it like wringing water out of a cloth.

"This is bad," he said quietly, soft disbelief in his eyes. "But I think I can fix it."

"Please try, monsieur," Madame Giry beseeched him. "She's nearly family to me." Nadir watched in a sort of horrified fascination as the tough, wooden exterior she always wore came melting away in such a short amount of time.

The Persian man and M. Giry stepped out of the room when the doctor dismissed them and sat in the chairs in the front room. Nadir was glad they were somewhat uncomfortable; it gave his anxious mind something to try and focus on other than the fact that Juliet's life was in the hands of a doctor. A capable one, he was sure, but still only human. And humans made mistakes sometimes.

Terse silence reigned for the better part of an hour. Nadir interlaced his fingers tightly and cupped them over his knee, crossing his legs and rocking back and forth slowly. He knew Erik was pacing around outside with his fists so tightly clenched his knuckles were turning white.

After what seemed like an eternity the doctor reemerged, looking tired and worn. The pair sat up straight, leaning forward almost in unison. "She's fine," he said. "But very weak, She'll need bed rest for at least a week."

Madame Giry stood and kissed Doctor Frederic's cheeks. "Merci, monsieur, merci," she whispered, rushing into the sitting room to be with the girl.

The doctor approached Nadir. "An injury like the one she has is so deep and precise that it could have only been a determined attacker with murder in mind. You could take this to court, monsieur," he said softly.

"There is not much to report. Neither she nor I saw the attacker. I managed to fend him off," he said, feeling slightly guilty about the lie. Part of it was true; he hadn't seen the person that attacked Juliet. A look from the doctor prompted him to add, "She's a good friend of mine, I'm glad she came to no harm." He felt the need to stress that.

"I believe you," he said. "You seem to be a very kind friend as well. Goodnight, monsieur. I wish the mademoiselle Godspeed with her recovery." He tipped his hat and exited the house.

Nadir went to find Madame Giry and Juliet. The older woman was seated beside the girl, who laid beneath a blanket. Even from where he was standing, he could see the heavy bandaging on her abdomen.

Silently, he walked to the back door and opened it. His earlier assumption had been correct. Erik was pacing in the snow. His head snapped up when he heard the door.

"She's fine," Nadir hastened to say before Erik could begin asking questions. A long sigh of relief seemed to emanate from the very core of his being. "But she needs a bit of rest before she'll be back to normal."

Erik nodded, running a hand over his hair slowly. "I would imagine," he said.

"Madame Giry would like to speak with you," Nadir said, opening the door for Erik. He went inside without a word. Nadir, feeling he could offer no more to the situation, left to make his way home.

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Erik made his way into the spacious home of Madame Giry and was immediately met by her. "Come, we need to speak," she said quietly, taking his hand and leading him into the room where Juliet was resting. Her long hair had tumbled free of it's updo and had spread out onto the pillow in a messy halo around her head. They sat in a pair of armchairs, facing each other.

Antoinette was the first one to break the silence. "What happened, Erik?" she inquired, her voice low.

Erik decided it would be wise to start from the beginning. "After the performance, Nadir and I were in my home. It would seem as though the leading man you hired and one of his companions had some sort of a grudge against me. From what I gather, they found out about the mirror passageway and forced Mademoiselle Leroux to show them the way down. Somehow, they got the support of some of the stagehands, who managed to take Monsieur Khan and myself by surprise. They made the ultimatum of my life to ensure the safety of hers. Suffice to say I freed myself and Monsieur Khan and a fight ensued. A candle brushed one of the tapestries and a fire started. Monsieur Gaston's companion attacked Juliet, who I had previously thought was out of the way, and gave her the wound before I could get to her."

When he finished, Antoinette had a hand over her mouth. "How many dead?" she managed to ask. He'd been hoping she would avoid that question.

"As the fire was quickly getting out of hand when we managed to escape, I'd assume that they all are," Erik admitted, feeling a twinge or regret in the pit of his stomach. But just a twinge, mind you.

Antoinette was silent for a long time. He knew she didn't approve of the fact that he'd killed them, but he could also tell that she knew it had been the only thing he could do to save them both. Finally, she nodded and said, "It's very late, you should try to sleep, Erik. You may have the guest bedroom. It's the first door on your left."

"Thank you, Antoinette," he murmured. "Goodnight." He wandered into the room and rummaged around in the drawer for a spare pair of nightclothes. When he found them, he put them on and laid down in the pastel-colored sheets of the bed. Sleep evaded him and Erik tossed and turned until the sun rose, playing soft gray shadows across the white walls of the room like some shadow puppet show designed to remind him that he'd gone the entire night without a wink of sleep.

The next morning, Erik got up early and put his clothes on, feeling Ayesha wind around his ankles when he was ready. "Good morning," he said, his spirits rising ever so slightly. She purred in response, sensing his stressed nature.

Adjusting his mask, he made his way cautiously into the sitting room, on the lookout for anyone who wouldn't be sympathetic to him. Thankfully, the only person he encountered was Antoinette, who was in the kitchen. She looked up to see him and nodded in recognition.

"Bonjour, Erik," she said.

"Bonjour, Antoinette," he replied. "Is Juliet—" She knew what he was going to ask and sadly shook her head no.

"Not yet. She murmured in her sleep a few times, but she hasn't opened her eyes yet," she said regretfully. "Would you like some breakfast?"  
Erik's heart had sunk right through the floorboards at her words, leaving him even less hungry than he would've been. "No, thank you," he muttered, going to sit beside Juliet and silently will her to wake up. He would never forgive himself if she didn't.

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When things had begun to burn in earnest, Gaston, weak though he was from loss of air, dragged himself into the lake just far enough to save himself and watched the lair of the Opera Ghost go up in flames. The pain of loss coupled with an anger that not only were the stagehands dead, but his only friend as well created a fiery knot in the pit of his stomach. The Phantom wasn't dead, though, and neither was Juliet. As he dusted the soot from his hair, Gaston Rosseau made a solemn oath that Juliet and the Phantom would pay with their lives for the fact that his brother and Phillipe de Chagny were no longer of this world.

Slowly picking his way through the burned rubble, Gaston found his way back up into the Opera House. Or what was left of it, anyway. Not to his surprise, he found it burned to the ground. People were scouring the ashes for anything salvageable. A policeman looked up from a pile of debris and his eyes grew wide.

"Monsieur Rosseau?" he stuttered, looking at the onetime leading man as though he were an apparition.

"Yes," he responded, walking toward the man.

"How are you—" he began.

"Not dead? It wasn't an easy thing, I can tell you," he said. "And the Opera House would still be standing if it weren't for the man known as the Phantom of the Opera." He clenched his fists and drew a shaky breath. "Six stagehands were killed last night, as was the Vicomte Phillipe de Chagny and—" he decided to throw a last minute curveball, "—Mademoiselle Juliet Leroux was also killed by this monster."

His last comment traveled to the ears of the rest of the people standing around, drawing several shocked gasps. The prima donna? Dead?

"Is this true?" a man asked, coming up to him.

Gaston willed a few tears to appear in his eyes, which wasn't difficult due to the smoke still heavy in the air. "Yes. It was what happened with Miss Daae all over again. He developed an obsession with her and attempted to drag her off to his lair. The Vicomte, the group of stagehands, and I tried to rescue her, but they were killed in the struggle, as was she. I narrowly managed to survive by hiding in the underground lake. You may find the bodies of my companions, but you will not find the one belonging to Mademoiselle Leroux. He took it with him." A small crowd had gathered around him as he spoke, growing more and more saddened and enraged by the minute.

They asked questions, but he waved them off. "I know you have questions, but if it is not too much trouble, I would very much like to be left alone at the moment." He strode way, trying to think of a way to get his revenge.

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Slowly, Juliet's eyes began to flutter open. She groaned quietly, a pain arcing through her right side. Her hand floated down to meet a bunch of bandages wrapped around her abdomen. What had happened? Why did she hurt so much and smell of smoke from a fire?

Her brain plodded along fuzzily as she turned her head to the side and tried to focus on the dark shape next to her. The outline of a man swam into view.

"Mademoiselle, can you hear me?" a familiar voice inquired, sounding like she was trying to hear him from underwater. Juliet strained to remember who it was.

Suddenly, it all came rushing back to her in a frightening deluge. Her eyes snapped open wide and she struggled upright in bed. Images of men dying and being hurt, strangled, and killed flashed through her mind, all shrouded in hungry red flames. Juliet's vision became razor sharp and focused in on the man beside her. _Erik._ The name, which nearly always comforted her, made her heart contract in fear.

She struggled to form words, and they came rushing out. "You k-k-killed them," she croaked. Deciding that it would be unwise to remain in the same room, she attempted to get out of bed and run. But her legs were weak and she pitched forward. Erik caught her in his arms and she struggled wildly, or as wildly as one can when one is still a little dizzy and disoriented from nearly bleeding out.

"Get away from me!" she shrieked. "You just stay away!"

"Juliet, it's just me," he pleaded. "Please don't—"

"Stay away! You'll kill me just like you killed all the others!" she cried, hysteria ruling her mind and body.

Using gentle force, all that was needed against her weak body, Erik lifted Juliet into the bed and laid her down. "I'm not going to hurt you, please believe me when I say that," he murmured quietly.

She remained unconvinced, still squirming away from him. "All of them dead, watched them die, and you didn't even _care!_" She took deep, shuddering breaths and wiped some tears from her face, searching for a measure of self-control.

"They would have killed both you and I, would you have preferred that that happened? Erik asked, a bit harshly. "I did what I had to do, but I'm not proud of it. I can assure you of that."

Juliet put her hands on her stomach and closed her eyes, biting her lip trying not to cry out as a deep pain wracked her body. When it subsided, she said in a small voice, "Erik, please leave." When it looked like he was going to protest, she repeated, "Please, just leave."

The tears began to flow as soon as he was out of the room. A murderer, she'd nursed a murderer back to health and befriended him. People had tried to warn her, but she hadn't believed them until now. And yet, he'd saved her life. She had some serious thinking to do.

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Erik bumped into Madame Giry as soon as he left the room. "Erik, what happened?" she asked sharply. "I heard raised voices."

He shook his head, feeling the weight of the world come crashing down on his shoulders. "She went mad when she saw me, Antoinette. Started screaming that I was a murderer."

She was silent for an extended period of time. "I don't really know what to say, Erik," she said at last. "Because as much as I want to tell you she's wrong, I don't think I can." She walked away, leaving Erik to his own thoughts which may not have been the best of things. He paced all over the house for hours until Ayesha convinced him to go back to the spare bedroom. Weary, he sat down and massaged his temples slowly.

Ayesha leapt onto his lap and gave a soft meow, her piercing blue eyes blinking up at him. She almost looked like she felt sorry for him. "I really messed this up, didn't I?" he asked, shaking his head with a bitter chuckle and rubbing her ears. She leaned into his touch, giving him a look that said, _Yes, you did. It's not too late to fix it, though. You just need to find out how to do it._

"You, my feline friend, are so much more reasonable than nearly any human being I know," he told her with a grateful smile. She had a rather smug look on her whiskered face as her master began to hunt down a pen and parchment.

The finished product went something like this:

_My dear Juliet,_

_ I could never begin to explain how truly sorry I am that you had to witness the side of me that you saw last night. It's something I would never wish anyone to see, least of all someone I care about. My excuses are few and somewhat weak ,but I will stand by them._

_ I have a suspicion that the two men would not have been content to merely take my life, but yours as well if you were to give them any semblance of trouble whatsoever. It was never my intention that they would all die, but one of them accidentally set a fire and that I had no control over._

_ I understand fully if you no longer wish to have any association with me. I cannot say I would not do the same thing if I were in your shoes. Just know that I value our friendship, if one still remains, very much and I've never known someone whose company I've enjoyed this much. I remain, if you so choose it,_

_yours sincerely,_

_Erik_

When he finished writing the letter Erik nearly tore it up, but he forced himself to fold it neatly and slip it under the closed door he knew the soprano resided behind. Now all there was to do was wait. _Again._

**A/N: The next chapter is nearly finished and I may post it tomorrow, depending on how much homework I have to do.**

**When I was much younger, I watched a show called Wishbone (major credit points to those of you who know what it is and remember it!) and I found out that there was one based on the book version of Phantom of the Opera. I located it on YouTube and started to watch it, only to realize (to my dismay) that Wishbone wasn't playing the Phantom, but Raoul! D: Much disappointment ensued.**

**No one answered my Bob Dylan question. :'( It was a paraphrased lyric from his song, "Pay in Blood" from his latest album, Tempest. Good song.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: This is the Christmas chapter, which is now a month and two days overdue. Many apologies, I had a lot farther to go than I thought I did. It seemed so short in my head, but writing it was a different matter altogether.**

**The story Erik is going to tell in this chapter closely mirrors Susan Kay's Phantom.**

Juliet sat up in bed with a novel that Meg had lent her. Her friend had been beside herself when she discovered that Juliet had been hurt. They'd talked for about an hour until Madame Giry had called the girl away to help with chores.

Suddenly, a rustling sound came from her door. She dropped her book and inched back on the bed carefully, feeling nervous. A piece of paper made an appearance. She waited a full minute to make sure it wouldn't explode or grow fangs or something else unpleasant and potentially dangerous before she cautiously got up and padded quietly over to the folded parchment.

Unfolding it slowly, her examination revealed Erik's elegant script. She almost decided against reading it, but her curious nature made her eyes see the words. Her resolve to never have anything to do with him was growing weaker by the sentence, but it was still there. She needed to know more about him before she made any decisions about his character. That would require speaking to him in person instead of communicating through pen and ink.

She was sitting in bed again when Madame Giry came hustling into her room worriedly. "We need to speak," she said quietly, taking a seat at the end of the bed. In her hands, she held a copy of that afternoon's newspaper. Juliet tried to read it upside down. Seeing this, the older woman handed it to her. Juliet's mouth dropped further open with every word she read.

"_**Eight Dead in Opera House Fire; Opera Ghost Strikes Again!**_

_ "Last night at roughly ten-thirty pm, a massive fire started in the basement of the Opera Populaire and quickly consumed the whole building. Of the ten people in the building at the time that it started, only two survived. One is Monsieur Gaston Rosseau, the other the elusive man known only as the Opera Ghost or the Phantom of the Opera. _

_ "Of the eight who perished, six were stagehands, one was the Vicomte Phillipe de Chagny, and the last was the newly named Prima Donna; Mademoiselle Juliet Leroux, a Normandy native."_

Juliet dropped the newspaper in shock. "What?" she yelped. She was most certainly _not _dead.

Madame Giry looked remorseful and a touch angry. "It seems our leading man has been doing some storytelling. I should have never hired him," she sighed, looking suddenly tired and much older. "And you haven't come to the worst part yet."

Apprehensively, Juliet picked up the newspaper once more and found her place. Her brow furrowed further as her brain struggled to comprehend how so many lies could exist in just one newspaper article.

_"Saddened and infuriated by the loss of his friend and a woman he had been close to, Monsieur Rosseau has gone to the police who have issued a warrant for the arrest of the man who calls himself the Opera Ghost. He is wanted dead or alive and the reward is 20,000 francs. It is not recommended you advance on him should you see him unless you are trained in some form of combat. He is reported to be armed, mentally unstable, and extremely dangerous. He is described as tall and thin, and dressed in all black. A very distinctive porcelain half-mask covers the right half of his face. Do not hesitate to contact the police if you have information of any sort._

_ "Citizens are reminded that he is now considered a fugitive and anyone who is found to be giving him aid of any sort shall suffer consequences."_

Juliet slowly et the newspaper down, anxiety gaily tying her stomach in knots. "Madame Giry, what are we going to do?" she whispered.

The ballet mistress looked up, firm resolve in her eyes. "It's not safe for either of you to remain in Paris," she said. "When you're well enough, I'm sending both of you to Normandy. I can wire your father in a few hours to tell him he may be gaining two new house guests and also to dismiss any and all rumors he may hear of your death." She seemed to sense the uncertainty in Juliet's thoughts and added, "I know you and Erik aren't exactly on the best of terms and I will inform him that he's free to do as he chooses once you arrive in Normandy but until then it is too dangerous for him to be on his own."

Juliet had a brief but intense discussion with herself and found herself asking, "May I speak to Erik, please?" She supposed it was better now than later.

One of Madame Giry's eyebrows rose marginally in question, but she nodded and left to fetch Erik. For about five minutes, Juliet was left to wrestle with her thoughts and tried to convince herself that this was a necessary conversation to have. When he entered the room, he walked as though he were treading on a rather thin sheet of ice and Juliet almost lost her resolve, but she steeled herself.

"Bonjour, Erik," she said, her voice scarcely above a breath. "Please, sit down." He delicately lowered himself onto the edge of her bed and clasped his hands together, studying them intently. "May I ask you some questions?" her voice caught in her throat like it was protesting about what it was being made to say and she coughed.

He didn't look at her once, but merely kept his head bent forward. "What would you like to know?" he inquired.

"Well, firstly, I'd like to be able to look you in the eye," she said gently. He obliged, shifting his weight so his body faced her. His liquid brown eyes darted across her face and he seemed to be forcing himself to keep looking at her. "I want to know more about you," she said. "You can start from the beginning, if you'd like."

He huffed out a gusty sigh. "Mademoiselle, that is an extremely long story that is arduous both to tell and listen to."

"I'm trying to decide what to think about you and I don't think I can make a rational decision unless I know more about you," she said.

"I want to know more about you in return, then."

He was making her a deal. Knowing that it was the only way to hear any of his story, she nodded in consent and Erik began to tell the story of his life.

"My father died before I was born," he began. "Why or how, I do not know, but I _do _know that it caused my mother much grief. This may be why I look like I do. When I was born, she wanted nothing to do with me whatsoever. She made our priest name me after himself and this is why I am unsure of my last name. I never knew either of their last names and wasn't sure which one I should take even if I did. I believe my mother was equal parts terrified and disgusted by me. The first and only real present I received from her was a mask to conceal my face." Erik's voice was bitter and the words jerked from his mouth like he was spitting a foul-tasting substance out. He clenched and unclenched his fists before continuing.

"I wasn't allowed out of the house much, not even for mass. Even then, I was looked on as a child of the devil. My only real friend at that point was a dog named Sasha that my mother owned. She was the only one who didn't judge me for who I was or what I looked like, you see. As you might imagine, I didn't like having to hide all the time and soon, by age ten I believe, I ran away and was promptly captured by a band of gypsies headed by a man named Javert. When they discovered my unusual appearance, they put me in their traveling show ans showcased me as the genius freak as they found I was proficient in both architecture and music. The Living Corpse, they called me. The scars you saw on my torso were from the times I misbehaved or tried to escape."

Juliet's hand seemed to gain a life of its own and it slid across the bed to cover Erik's slightly shaking one. He inhaled sharply through his nose. "I did escape, though. One night, Javert caught me trying to run away and took me into his tent. He tried to..." He swallowed convulsively before continuing, squeezing his eyes shut. "He tried to rape me and I stabbed him with one of his daggers. It was the only way I could've escaped and I came to associate murder with being the way out of a frightening or difficult situation. Eventually, I met a man, a mason, named Giovanni. I was in Rome at this point. When he saw that I showed promise in his work area, he took me in as his apprentice. Those few months were the happiest I remember being, ever most likely.

"But, like all happy things, it came to an end, and rather abruptly. His daughter was very much used to getting what she wanted all the time and in one way or another I believe she was somehow attracted to me. The details of this are fuzzy, but a long struggle on the roof over whether or not I would remove my mask resulted in Luciana dying by my hand. I spent the next several years wandering until I made it to Persia.

"There, I was employed by the shah of Persia to be his personal 'magician, if you will, and also to entertain the khanum. I created a maze of mirrors that functioned something like a torture chamber for her. She had a rather, perhaps _sadistic_ would be an appropriate word for it, personality and drew great pleasure from watching people being tortured to extents that I have no care to recount. There, I met Nadir and the details of why exactly I left are faint. I believe I may have said something they deemed 'extremely inappropriate' under the circumstances. A warrant was sent out for my arrest and Nadir helped me to escape. For reasons I do not know, he has chosen to stay with me and I came all the way back to France and into Paris. There, because of a competition, I began to assist in the building of the Opera House, eventually taking over the project. Sometime after it was done, I bet a young Siamese kitten who became my companion, also known as Ayesha. Her collar belonged to the shah's favorite cat. I _liberated_ it before I left. And, I think you know the rest of my history as well as I do." He seemed to have finished speaking, as the room lapsed into silence.

"I am unsure whether I agree with some of your decisions, but I do understand them now," Juliet said, wincing quietly as another pain arced through her side from the wound.

He noticed this. "You should rest," he insisted, helping her to lie back on a pile of pillows and tucking a blanket around her gently. "Do you need anything else?" he asked.

She shook her head slowly. "No, I'm all right," she said. "I have one more question, though." One of Erik's hands rested on the night table beside her bed and she took it between her own hands, examining it. The thick, white scars still remained, confirming that it wasn't her overactive imagination. "What happened to your hands?"

"Ah, these," he nodded , a weary note sliding into his voice. "It's quite simple, but sad. At some point in my young life I became aware that I was the only one I knew who had to cover his face with a mask. As a result, I became rebellious and refused to wear it to dinner one night. My mother became angry with me and shrieked that I was never to go without my mask again. When I defiantly asked why, she yanked me in front of a mirror to show me my face. At the time, I had no idea it was my face. I thought it was a monster and smashed my hands against the mirror, breaking it. Our housemaid, who cared more for me than my mother ever did, spent an hour and a half pulling glass shards out of my hands and bandaging them. My mother never helped once."

Juliet's eyes filled with tears of sympathy for the man. "That's horrible," she whispered, gently tracing her fingers over the thick white tissue. He carefully tilted her chin up and wiped her tears away with his thumbs.

"It was a long time ago," he murmured. "Don't trouble yourself with it. You should sleep now." Still holding her hand, he began to hum a tune that Juliet didn't recognize. When she fell asleep, it was with Erik's hand wrapped securely around hers and the sound of his mesmerizing voice growing faint in her ears.

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In a few days, Doctor Frederic okayed Juliet's traveling and Madame Giry began to plan their trip to Normandy. It would be three days by train, but she managed to find a route that would have only one stop halfway through the second day. Both she and Erik would be heavily disguised since one of them was presumed dead and the other was a very much wanted fugitive. She packed copious amounts of clothing for both of them despite protests of it being too much from each recipient. Ayesha would be traveling with them on the train and Caesar would be in the livestock car. He almost would have remained with Nadir, but Erik recalled his run-in with Gaston while riding Caesar and the decision was made to send him along.

On the day of their departure, Meg and Madame Giry bade their goodbyes to Erik and Juliet, as did Nadir. "Write to me, won't you?" Meg whispered as she and Juliet hugged.

"Once a week at least," she promised the blonde dancer.

"Good luck." They embraced one last time, and Meg was careful not to hurt Juliet's side. Now it was Madame Giry's turn to hug the girl.

"Watch out for Erik, now," she murmured. "And don't let him go. You don't find men like him every day." Smiling gently she moved to hug Erik, leaving behind a confused Juliet. She watched the ballet mistress firmly grasp Erik's arms, kiss his cheeks, and whisper something to him that made him silently open and close his mouth in protest while Madame Giry looked on with a knowing look. Juliet wondered what she said.

Nadir kissed Juliet's hand and clasped Erik's shoulder, gruffly promising to write and visit as soon as he could.

Finally, they boarded the train and began to speed away from the city that had become so dangerous to them both. Erik was silent, staring out the window intently.

Juliet spoke first. "I never did tell you about my life, did I?" she questioned.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," he quickly replied.

"A promise is a promise," she said, shifting on her seat to get more comfortable. "Just don't laugh when you hear about how normal my life was compared to yours." She proceeded to tell him about being shuffled from school to school, her somewhat uninvolved father, the fact that her mother had died in childbirth, her friends, and Lola's full story. She took pride in the fact that she only choked up twice during the recounting of Lola's story.

"Your life wasn't exactly normal or easy, don't pawn it off as such," Erik told her, touching her hand. Juliet felt a small bolt of electricity zip up her hand and gave him a small smile in return. Their conversations turned to lighter topics after that. When they weren't sleeping or eating, it seemed they were always talking about a wide variety of things. The three days felt to Juliet as though they had passed in the blink of an eye. Erik was a fascinating person and she was sure she could spend an entire lifetime talking to him.

At the train station they shed their disguises and Juliet's childhood friend, Bridgette Laux, was waiting for them. "Julie!" she cried, rushing to hug her friend.

"Careful!" she giggled, stopping the hug a bit short so she wouldn't jostle her stitches at all.

"Ooh, sorry," she apologized. Wow, you look great! And this is..." she trailed off as Erik came into view. Juliet could tell by the look on her friend's face that she couldn't decide if she found him attractive or frightening.

"Oh, right. Bridgette, this is Erik. He's a friend of mine," Juliet explained, allowing them to meet. He took the slightly scared girl's hand and kissed it gently.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle," he said. She flushed bright red.

"And you as well, monsieur," she stumbled over her words a bit. "Your father is waiting for both of you at his home.

"Thank you, Bridgette," she said. "I'll come by to visit once we get our things dropped off." They loaded, or rather, Erik loaded their luggage into the carriage and Juliet directed the way to the house in which she had grown up. Once they got there, she trotted up the steps as Erik pulled the luggage out of the carriage. She knocked at the door and her father opened it quickly.

"Julie, you've grown," he murmured into her hair as they embraced. She inhaled the comforting scent of him.

"Papa, I haven't gotten any taller. Perhaps a bit wider, though," she joked, stroking her fingers through his graying hair. He chuckled, patting her arm.

"Oh, mon ange, that wasn't what I meant!" he protested. "I meant that you've matured gracefully into a beautiful young woman." She held him at arm's length and grinned.

"Thanks, papa. Erik's just going back to the train station to collect his horse." She paused, remembering something. "Oh, and papa? Erik is a wonderfully kind man, but he's quite shy and wears a half mask. It's to cover up a disfigurement he's had since birth and it embarrasses him. Please don't mention it," she pleaded, the words coming forth in a burst.

"A man's pride is his most prized possession. I won't do anything to hurt his pride, word of honor," he stated. Juliet smiled at her father's dramatic way of speaking. He seemed to have matured into a more caring person in the last few years.

They waited in the sitting room until Erik knocked on the door. "That'll be him," Juliet commented, getting to her feet and opening the door to let him in. He hesitated in the doorway and Juliet gently clasped his wrist, pulling him into her home.

She turned to see that her father had come into the room and had his eyes locked on Erik. His gaze flitted from Erik's face, to his mask, and to Juliet's hand on his wrist. She could see by his expression that he didn't approve. Not at all.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Despite Andre Leroux's disapproval of Erik, he did allow him to stay at his house. Thankfully, no awkward conversations had happened, but Juliet knew they needed to talk at some point. But at that moment, it wasn't Juliet's primary concern. The annual Christmas party that was held by her family friends was that night and she was pawing through Bridgette's closet for a costume.

"So, what's Erik wearing?" she asked eagerly as Juliet searched.

"I don't even know if he's going," Juliet replied. Bridgette gasped, looking dumbfounded.

"You mean he hasn't asked you?" she cried, throwing her hands in the air dramatically. "Why not? It's plain as plain can be to see that he likes you."

Juliet shook her head as she pulled it out of the closet. "I don't think he does. He had a bad experience with love a while ago and a bad experience with a party as well. He gives both a pretty wide berth nowadays."

Bridgette rolled her eyes. "Nonsense, you can't just stop wanting to be in love or be loved, and this party is far too much fun to miss." She got up and perused her closet. "And, you just sort of admitted that you like him," she added, pulling a deep pink, floor length dress out of her closet and nodding approvingly.

"I did not!" Juliet protested, taking the dress and agreeing that it would work.

"Yes you did." Bridgette smirked, flipping her brown hair over her shoulder. "And I don't blame you, even with the mask he's stunning. In fact, it almost adds to it." She tapped her chin pensively and gave Juliet a knowing look.

"Oh shut up and help me button up this dress," Juliet grumbled, holding her hair out of the way.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

"Erik, won't you even consider coming to the party tonight?" Juliet pleaded, standing by the door wearing the borrowed gown.

"I'm not much for parties, they tend to go somewhat awry when I attend," he reminded her. She sighed loudly, allowing her eyes to do a full circle in their sockets.

"That was Paris, this is Normandy. Please? I don't want you to spend Christmas Eve alone." She tugged at his wrists gently. His steadfast stance seemed to crumble a little bit.

"Just for awhile, yes?" he conceded. "I think your father could do with a bit of a boost of confidence in me."

"Probably. Come on, I promised Bridgette I'd stop by the orphanage before the dance. She works there and she says it does the children a world of good to meet people from the outside." Juliet pulled her hood up over her head and stepped outside into the gently falling snow. Erik followed behind her.

When she got there, she knocked and was met by a small, angelic looking girl with bright red curls bobbing along behind her and wide green eyes. Her tiny rosebud mouth opened in a little 'o' at the sight of Juliet an Erik. "Madame Laux!" she squealed. "There are angels at the front door!"

Juliet and Erik looked at each other for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Bridgette came hurrying around the corner and scooped the dreamy eyed girl up into her arms. "Didn't I tell you?" she inquired. "I told you that angels would come visit on Christmas Eve, and here they are! Go tell the others, alright?" She set the girl down and she went scampering away.

Bridgette grinned. "That was Caroline," she said. "She's a daydreamer, always thinking about fairies and things like that."

Juliet couldn't get over something Caroline had said. "_Madame_ Laux?" she asked in disbelief. "Since when?"

She sighed heavily, shifting her weight onto her left leg. "Not anymore. I was married to a stupid oaf named Joseph. He was a drunk and killed a man in a bar fight about a year ago. He'll die in prison, and given the amount I got hit by him, may God rot his soul."

Juliet wrapped a comforting arm around her friend's shoulders. "I'm so sorry, mon ami," she said. The girl tried to shrug it off, but it obviously hurt her. Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a barrage of small children running at their ankles and latching on like limpets on a rock beside a body of water. Erik stiffened as they clung to his shins and grinned up at him happily.

After a few minutes of playing with them, Juliet noticed a little boy sitting all by himself. Gently disentangling herself from a pile of young ones, she made her way over to sit by him. "Hello there," she whispered.

He didn't look at her. "This is my first Christmas without my mama," he said quietly. "Santa always forgot about me, and even though we didn't have much money she always got me something small at Christmas." Juliet's heart nearly broke in two at the sight of his quivering lip and chin. "Why did Santa always forget about me?"

"Santa never forgets," she told him softly. "He helped your mama buy those gifts and I'm sure he'll leave you something special tonight," Juliet promised, pulling the little boy into her arms gently. He looked up at her, blue eyes wide with wonder and sniffling a little.

"Really?" he whispered. She nodded, ruffling his hair.

"Really," she confirmed, setting him down softly and getting up to walk over to Erik. He was looking at her curiously. "What?" she asked.

"What did you say to him?" Erik asked.

"No child deserves not to have a proper Christmas," she said, her hand finding Erik's and squeezing it. Surely he didn't have many, if any at all, Christmases he could look on fondly in his memories of childhood.

Soon, they were at the party and Juliet found herself introducing Erik to everyone she remembered from her younger years. Most of them seemed to like him, but every once and awhile someone would give him a discreet look of disdain and Juliet would take Erik's hand and pretend she'd seen someone else she knew.

"I feel as though I'm getting mixed reviews," he said as they stood off to the side a little. "Doesn't it bother you that some of your friends and relatives don't like me?"

She shook her head firmly. "It wouldn't matter to me if all of them didn't like you. They don't know what they're missing." Abruptly, she turned red and ended the conversation by starting another one. "I like this song," she said, the sound of the familiar waltz bringing back memories. "It was the first song I learned to dance to. Would you like to join me?"

Erik fidgeted uncomfortably, avoiding Juliet's gaze. "Oh no, no thank you. I'm not much for—" Her searching gaze made him stop.

"Erik, do you not know how to dance?" her voice was soft.

"Once a long time ago, but not anymore," he admitted. "It's been so long."

"I'll show you, it's easy," she said, taking his arms and positioning them around her body. She felt him tense with nerves and whispered, "Trust me."

Slowly, she guided him across the dance floor, murmuring instruction when needed. He must have remembered part of how to dance, and soon the pair was gliding across the floor, limbs flowing from movement to movement like water.

Soon, slower songs began to play and Juliet drifted more closely into Erik's arms. Cautiously, she laid her head on his chest and listened to the beating of his heart. A decision was forming within her, but she waited another song and a half before she voiced her thoughts.

Craning her neck back to look into his eyes, Juliet said, "Erik, I don't quite know how to put this, but I have this feeling whenever I'm around you. It's not possible to describe it, but—"

Erik abruptly stopped dancing and held Juliet at arm's length firmly. "Juliet, please think about what you're going to say," he pleaded, eyes holding a note of sadness. "You could do so much better than me. I don't have a job, I couldn't provide for you, I look like a monster—" Juliet clapped a hand over his mouth. H was always so quick to insult himself and Juliet couldn't, for the life of her, understand why.

"Erik whatever-your-last-name-is, in case you haven't noticed, I don't care about any of that!" she said fiercely. "If I did, would I have stayed with you for this long? If I truly thought you were a monster, why on Earth didn't I leave you when I had the chance?" For once, the Phantom of the Opera had no words. "And believe me," she continued strongly. "I had a chance. A lot of them in fact, but I didn't. I'll tell you why. It's because I cared about you! And I still do. In fact, I think I love you!" To stop any further comment, Juliet kissed Erik for all she was worth. Right there in the middle of the dance floor. In front of everyone. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let the room around them disappear.

Finally, breathless, she pulled away. Her eyes were shining brightly as she looked at Erik. "I—" he mumbled, cheeks, or at least the one that was visible, flaming bright crimson.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

Juliet leaned in again. "Do shut up." It was truly the best Christmas she had ever had.

**A/N: *beams*** **This was way too much fun to write. And also the longest chapter I've ever written for this story. But if you think the drama is over, believe me. It's not. **

**Aren't Erik and Juliet cute? :D**

**Review?**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Hello, readers! It took me awhile to see that this had fifty reviews. Thank you all so much. :3**

**To the anon who asked if I was going to be doing a sequel... This story has a looong way to go before it's done, don't you worry. Or maybe you should...**

Erik felt like his brain had been exchanged for something that could only think of Juliet; of her warm, soft lips, her shimmering brown eyes, her silky black hair, and her slightly flushed cheeks. If that was all he could think about for the rest of his life, Erik didn't think he minded all that much. Gently, he brushed his hand across her cheek to tuck a few strand of hair behind her ear. "Juliet?" he whispered.

"Yes, Erik?"

He had been about to say something romantic and voice his thoughts, but over the top of Juliet's head he saw Andre Leroux staring at them with disapproval plainly written across his face. His brows were furrowed, his lips were pursed in a thin white line, and his nostrils flared out to the sides. Erik changed the direction that the conversation might have taken and said, "I think your father just saw us."

Juliet craned her neck and caught sight of her irate father. She turned back with a huff. "of for heaven's sake," she muttered. "He never was good at accepting anything even slightly different from his vision of how life should go." Taking his hand gently, she led him through the crowd and out into the fluffy snow after bundling up. He thought his hand might have gained several extra nerve endings.

"It's beautiful tonight," Juliet commented. Erik nodded in agreement, watching the flakes of snow swirling merrily to the ground. They walked in silence for a few paces.

"Juliet, I'm going to do something that I haven't done in a very long time," he said slowly, hoping desperately that his voice was still moderately okay. He'd made up his mind, he was going to sing for Juliet. He knew she hadn't really ever heard his singing voice before. Mostly, it was just his speaking—and, if he was being honest, his shouting—voice.

"What's that?" she asked, stopping in the road and turning to face him. A stray hair fluttered into her face in the light breeze that had started.

Erik didn't answer, instead, he began to sing to the woman who miraculously loved him despite his many flaws and imperfections.

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation._

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination._

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses..._

_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor._

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender._

_Turn your face away from the garish light of day,_

_Turn your face away from cold, unfeeling light -_

_and listen to the music of the night..._

_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams!_

_Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!_

_Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar!_

_And you'll live as you've never lived before._

As soon as he began to sing, Juliet's mouth opened slightly and her eyes grew wide. Slowly, her hand extended toward Erik and he took it gently in his, pressing it to his chest.

_Softly, deftly, music shall caress you._

_Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you._

_Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind,_

_in this darkness which you know you cannot fight_

_the darkness of the music of the night._

_Let your mind start a journey through a strange, new world!_

_Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!_

_Let your soul take you where you long to be!_

_Only then can you belong to me._

As the song had progressed, Juliet had gotten closer and closer to him. Soon, she was resting her head on his chest. Erik closed his eyes in the ecstasy that came from having her near and breathed in the delicate scent of her.

_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication!_

_Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation!_

_Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in,_

_To the harmony which dreams alone can write,_

_The power of the music of the night!_

_You alone can make my song take flight,_

_Help me make the music of the night._

When he finished, Juliet didn't move at all. Gradually she pulled away from him, a big smile spreading across her features. "That was..." she paused, her gaze turning pensive. Erik was gripped with the sudden, irrational fear that she had actually hated and she was just looking for a nice way to say so. "I don't think words could do your voice justice. They'd just seem insignificant," she finished. An impossibly happy feeling made Erik feel as though he might float away. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

"So, you liked it," he inquired, just to make sure.

She shook her head. "I loved it!" she whispered, taking his hand. Fingers intwined, they walked around town and watched the snow fall until Juliet began to complain of the cold a little. Knowing she was still a little weak from the injury, Erik picked her up bridal style and carried her all the way back to her house.

"Erik!" she giggled, protesting. "I can walk, put me down! I'm too heavy for you!"

He shook his head with a laugh, enjoying the sound of her giggling. "Mon ange, you weigh next to nothing. It's no trouble to me." All too soon they arrived at her house and Erik was forced to abandon the feeling of her nestled against his chest and put her down.

He smiled down at her. "It's late, cheri. I'll see you in the morning." He bent to kiss the top of her head, but was greeted by her lips instead. Not exactly a bad thing, he decided.

"Goodnight, Erik," she murmured, disappearing up the stairs. As soon as he couldn't see her any longer, a broad smile spread across Erik's face, his first genuine one in years, it seemed. Finally, he could be in love without any apparent troubles or snags. _Finally._ How relaxing it was.

He was already in the guest bed with Ayesha curled up at his feet before he he remembered the problem that went by the name of Andre Leroux. His eyes snapped open and he felt a small piece of uncertainty pierce his seemingly impenetrable joy. With a sigh, Erik rolled back over and pushed the thought out of his mind. The problem needed to be addressed, but it could wait.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

As soon as Juliet got up to her room, she beamed with utter bliss and spun around her room with her arms spread out wide. Erik wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but he was perfect for her.

Carefully avoiding her stitches. She put her nightgown on and got into bed, pulling the covers over. Snatches of Erik's singing replayed in her head as she fell asleep. It was the most wonderful lullaby in the world.

The next morning Juliet woke up early. Remembering it was Christmas Day, she put on a deep blue house dress, tugged a robe around her shoulders, and stuck her feet in her slippers. Quietly, she tiptoed down the stairs and made her way into the kitchen. Somebody was already in there. It was Erik. He was wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of black pants, and was apparently elbow-deep in a concoction of some sort.

"Erik?" she called hesitantly. He turned around and smiled.

"Good morning, Juliet."

"What are you doing?" She wandered over to him. "It certainly smells good. I didn't know you could cook. How did you learn?"

He kissed the crown of her head. "I do have to eat, you know. I suppose I learned through trial and error." A laugh escaped his lips. "Though it may have been more error than trial at times."

"It certainly paid off," Juliet commented, assisting him. The sound of food being prepared filled the comfortable silence. Juliet spoke again, "I'm going to make some cookies in a bit to take to the orphanage and I'll be going there later today. Would you like to come along?"

For an instant, he appeared to want to decline. Then, his expression changed. "Certainly," he said, caressing her cheek. Her flesh heated up in the places his hand touched her face.

A quiet, dry cough caused them to jump apart. Her father stood in the doorway with his arms appease him, Juliet ran to him and hugged him tightly. "Merry Christmas, papa!" she exclaimed. "Erik made breakfast for us, wasn't that _nice_ of him?" She fixed her father with a stare until he nodded and mumbled about how nice it was.

Breakfast passed in a thick, stuffy silence that made Juliet want to scream. Her papa would, whenever Erik wasn't looking at him, glare coldly over the top of his newspaper. Erik was only marginally more civil. He kept himself restrained to disdainful glances out of the corner of his eye.

Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore. "When you two are ready to be adults, do let me know," she said in exasperation, getting up and leaving the kitchen. Once she was past the door, she pulled it shut behind her and listened to see if and when they would start talking and, most likely, arguing.

Not surprisingly, her father spoke up first. "Monsieur Erik, with all due respect, I do not think you are a good match for my daughter and I would appreciate it if you would cease your relationship with her."

"May I ask why you have come to this decision?"

"I don't think you are suitable for her. My Juliet is a sweet, fragile girl used to the comforts of home. She needs someone who has a steady, reliable source of income and is able to provide her with a stable environment. Forgive me for my bluntness, but you can offer her neither of these."

Erik was quiet for a beat. His voice had dropped a degree or two in volume and temperature. "Monsieur Leroux, I have hardly been in Normandy for a fortnight. As is the case, I have not had the time to search for a job. I can assure you I will have one as soon as I am able. As for Juliet needing the comforts of home, if my memory serves me correctly, Juliet told me she spent the majority of her young life away from home and in boarding schools. How, may I ask, is that an accurate representation of 'home comforts'?"

She could tell without even seeing that Erik's last comment had left her father livid.

"How dare you?" The sound of her father's chair skittering away from the table reached Juliet's ears. "Madame Giry told me all about you. How you've been living under that Opera House all alone for years and how you never take that mask of yours off. Why is that? What kind of a freak _are _you?"

A cry from Erik broke her vow of silence. Juliet went rushing back into the kitchen to find her father glaring angrily at Erik, who was turned slightly away from him and clutching his face. If she didn't know better, she would have thought her father had punched him. However, the white mask in Andre Leroux's hands betrayed what had actually happened.

"Stop it, papa!" Juliet pleaded, snatching the mask from his hand and returning it to Erik. "Please, both of you, stop. Both of you are right and wrong. Papa, I'm not fragile and I love Erik. He's not a freak. Erik, my father made mistakes, but I still love him. It is my choice in life to love whomever I choose. Kindly stop trying to make those decisions for me."

Turning on her heel, Juliet made her way up to her bedroom and locked the door behind her with a huff of irritation. _Men,_ she thought disdainfully. A soft meow made her jump, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Ayesha sat on the bed, flicking the tip of her tail back and forth meditatively. A small chuckle was all Juliet allowed herself. She crossed the room and sat down next to the feline.

"Men are impossible, aren't they?" she asked the Siamese cat. Ayesha purred in what Juliet imagined to be agreement and made herself comfortable in Juliet's lap. "If only they could see how truly foolish they're being!" she sighed, stroking the cat's silky ears.

"I need to write some letters, would you mind getting off my lap?" Juliet silently berated herself for talking to a cat, but Ayesha's wise blue eyes were as intelligent as an ancient goddess's would be. With a meow of discontent, she stretched and burrowed beneath the covers of her bed.

Juliet got up and located her parchment and fountain pen. Her first letter was to Meg Giry.

_Dear Meg,_

_ I'm writing, just like I said I would! I'm writing this letter on Christmas Day, but I suspect it won't reach you until New Year's. In that case, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!_

_ I hope you and your mother are doing well. I've been worrying about you with all of... well, I suppose I shouldn't be writing his name just in case. Anyway, I've been worrying that he'd try to come after you if he suspected anything. I hope this letter finds you well and unharmed. _

_ Erik and I have arrived safely in Normandy. And speaking of Erik, there's something I must tell you. Although, I think I recommend sitting down before you read it... Are you sitting down? Well, I'm not exactly sure what to say about this, but Erik and I are certainly more than friends. I would deem it too bold to say we've fallen in love, but it certainly seems as though our relationship is heading that way. I couldn't tell you how it started, but I can say that it all sort sort of came together last night when I kissed him at a party. Not much like the Juliet who came to the Opera House a few years ago._

_ There seems to be one snag, however. My father doesn't approve and a rather nasty spat ensued. I don't really know how it'll all work out. I'll keep you posted._

_ Yours sincerely,_

_ Juliet_

Next, she wrote a letter to Nadir.

_Dear Nadir,_

_ Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! I hope this letter finds you well and happy. Erik and I arrived in Normandy without any complications. Although, one signifiant factor is making things a bit dicey with my father._

_ First, and do please sit down, Erik and I... to be honest, I have no idea how to describe the situation we now find ourselves in. We're definitely more than just friends now, but I feel as though saying we're in _love_ is getting a bit ahead of ourselves. My father vehemently disapproves of the fact that we know each other at all, which is the complicating factor I mentioned. Do you have any advice on how to work through this rough patch? Neither of us have come up with anything._

_ How is everything in Paris? I'm sure you've heard of... well, _his, _plans by now. I hope it hasn't affected you in any way and I would be grateful if you could keep me up to date._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Juliet_

She finished writing and sealed her letters into envelopes. Her name wasn't in the return address since she was supposedly dead. She'd mail them on the way to the orphanage later in the day. Gently pressing a cool hand to the scar beneath her hair, Juliet took a deep breath and reentered the kitchen. Erik was nowhere to be found, but her father was sitting next to the shiny black stove with a worn hardcover book in his hand.

She wished to avoid a confrontation with him and carefully refrained from eye contact, beginning to make the cookies. It was a successful venture at first, but the issue at hand was like an itch. It demanded to be scratched and dealt with.

"Juliet?" her father's voice was soft, cajoling. "I know how you tend to dive into things headfirst, but—" For one of the first times in her life, Juliet interrupted him.

"Papa, please just listen. I know you don't like Erik, I know you disapprove of him. Yes, his past is hazy at best, but if you just gave him _half_ a chance, you'd see that he's really not all that bad. He saved my life, papa. I would have been dead if not for him."

"If you're doing this because you feel obligated to him, you're not cheri," it almost seemed as though her father was begging her to see reason. "You don't owe him anything. Ma belle, please don't ignore me. There are other men out there, men who would love you more than he can. Men that could make your life comfortable."

"The last 'real' gentleman I met wants me dead, papa," she resorted to using a harsh tone of voice. It worked; he flinched. "And it's not because I feel I owe him something, because I don't. I helped him through a rough time in his life, he saved my life. I would guess we're about even now. To set the record straight, and I want this to be the last time I have to explain it, I love Erik. No tricks, no strings attached. And, I always will. No matter what you say." Tears were stinging the corners of her eyes and she blinked several times in quick succession to clear them. She didn't want to cry now.

"Cheri, I just want what is best for my daughter." It was a last-ditch effort. Juliet smiled sadly and pressed a delicate kiss to her father's forehead.

"Papa, I'm still your daughter. I always will be," she pulled the tray from the oven and fanned a hand over the cooling treats. "But I'm not your little girl anymore. I can make my own decisions safely." Putting the cookies in a large container, she left the kitchen and found Erik standing at the foot of the stairs. Setting the container aside, she pressed herself against his chest tightly, feeling his arms fold around her securely.

"Are you all right?" he asked, the low vibrations of his voice rumbling against her ear. She nodded a little, sighing deeply. A few minutes later, she leaned back and kissed his good cheek.

"Do you want to come to the orphanage with me?"

"Of course, I said I would," Erik nodded, going in search of his cloak and hat. They went by carriage at Erik's insistence, he apparently didn't want Juliet to overexert herself just yet.

"I never got to say this this morning, but Merry Christmas, mon ange," Erik murmured, taking Juliet's hand. She felt her cheeks heat up, and not for the first time, wished she didn't flush so easily.

At the orphanage, they opened the door and immediately were besieged by throngs of tiny children who came running out and attached themselves to their ankles. Juliet squeezed Erik's hands once, grinning at Bridgette.

"Merry Christmas!" she called. "I brought something for later."

Bridgette hurried over to them and embraced Juliet happily, kidding each cheek. "Thank you so much for coming. The children have been begging to play in the snow all morning and I can't watch them all when it's just me.

"Our pleasure," she replied. "I think at least one good snowman is in order, don't you?" Several children overheard her last comment and cheered in delight.

"Mademoiselle Juliet, help us!" Sometime later, Juliet looked up from where she was helping a small group hunt down a bundle of twigs from which to select a pair of arms for the snowman. What appeared to be a monumentally large snowball was talking to her. Chuckling, she realized that it had grown to be so large that it concealed its' creators entirely.

"I think that snowball is big enough, don't you?" she questioned with the beginnings of a grin curling up the sides of her lips, peeking behind the snowball to see three pairs of bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and pearly white smiles looking up at her.

"Yes, I think it is," Erik agreed, coming up behind Juliet and briefly resting his hand on the small of her back. "I'lll get it over to where you said you wanted the snowman, okay?" With seemingly little effort, he pushed it to the center of the yard, squealing young ones trailing behind him. When he stopped, they tugged at his trouser legs and begged to be picked up. Not once did they question his porcelain mask, all they wanted was to ride on his shoulders or be held in his arms. Juliet was sure that this was a very new experience for Erik, and one he enjoyed, judging by the look of joy on his face.

Softly she began to sing to herself, looping an arm around one of the saplings at the edge of the property and watching as the snowman slowly took shape.

_There's something sweet and almost kind._

_But he was mean and he was coarse and unrefined._

_But now he's dear and so unsure_

_I wonder why I didn't see it there before._

He looked over and saw her watching. Something significant had changed in him. For the first time, there were no hesitations or reservations in his expression. Juliet realized it was because, for once, there was no one around him that was judging him for how he looked. He waved her over and she walked in their general direction.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Erik couldn't stop watching Juliet, even when the little ones tugged at him, begging him to assist them. Every part of her was just so perfect. He discreetly kissed her cheek when no one was watching and they kept moving along with the construction of the snowman. She blushed and reached up to trail her fingers along the outer edge of his mask. The last time someone had done that, they'd ripped the mask off. She simply touched it briefly and continued with what she was doing. Erik was stunned at this action.

When she was inside the orphanage digging around for some sort of scarf and hat for the underdressed man of snow, Erik sang under his breath as one of the children made themselves comfortable sitting on his back.

_She glanced this way, I thought I saw._

_And when we touched she didn't shutter at my flaw._

_No it can't be, I'll just ignore._

_But then she's never looked at me that way before._

Erik knew they'd crossed the boundary of friendship last night, but he wasn't sure he could classify them as 'together' or 'in love'. However, the way Juliet looked at him prompted him to think that they were perhaps stepping into those two titles quite easily.

Maybe he shouldn't think about it so much. Over-thinking things tended to lead nowhere but problems and, if he wanted to be especially melodramatic, disaster.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_ New and a bit alarming._

_Who'd have ever thought that this could be?_

_True that he's no Prince Charming._

_But there's something in him that I simply didn't see._

Juliet hummed to herself while singing these lyrics in her head while she and Erik held hands under the table. The children were eating the cookies with the gusto only children can and chocolate was simply smeared across each and every tiny face. Bridgette bumped her with her elbow and arched her eyebrows meaningfully. She gave a small, flippant grin and turned her attention back to the young ones.

Erik may not have been the perfect, noble, knight-in-shining-armor type of man she had dreamed about as a young girl, that much was true. But Juliet decided that maybe, he was better than anyone like that.

**A/N: Why do these chapters always get way longer than I expect them to? Anyhoo, hoped you liked it! Things are going well for Erik and Juliet now, but in the future... *badly concealed evil grin* Who knows? Gaston isn't gone for good, I can tell you that much.**

**Review, please! :3**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Hello, readers! Chapter 14 is here! Surprisingly, neither Erik nor Juliet are featured directly throughout the entirety of this chapter.**

Meg Giry drew her hood far over her face, casting a quick glance down both sides of the street before stepping out with a handful of letters. Ever since the Opera House fire, she hadn't been out of the house much. Part of it was because she was supposed to be in mourning for those lost in the fire, and the other part was Gaston. She was terrified he would sense her connection to Juliet and Erik's disappearance and attempt to do her harm. Her mother regularly checked up on Monsieur Khan to make certain he was unharmed. Thus far, Christmas had come and gone without incident. It was New Year's Eve and there would be no party this year.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Delacleur!" Meg said brightly, handing the friendly old postmaster the letters. He had thin, pure white hair, finely wrinkled skin, a pair of pince-nez glasses perched upon a long, straight nose, and a beaming smile that never seemed to dim at any time of the day.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Giry," he said kindly, executing a funny little bow. "A letter came for you this morning, all the way from Normandy!"

Meg tried her hardest not to jump up and down for joy. It was from Juliet. It had to be. "Merci, Monsieur. Happy New Year's!" She waved goodbye to him and hurried home, clutching the cream colored envelope to her chest protectively. As ever, it felt to her like there was a pair of eyes watching her all the way home. However, when she turned around there was never anyone there.

When she got home, she immediately sought her mother. "Mama, there's a letter from Juliet!" she exclaimed happily, sliding her fingernail under the edge of the envelope. Her mother looked over her shoulder.

"It's addressed to you, shall I avert my eyes in the case that it contains gossip unfit for a mother's eyes?" she teased her daughter gently. Meg laughed and waved her off, pulling the letter from the envelope and unfolding it. Her eyes quickly scanned the words, stopping completely at the part that spoke of Juliet kissing Erik at a Christmas party.

"Mama!" she called. Her mother came running, a worried frown creasing her forehead.

"What is it, Meg? Is something wrong?" she asked urgently.

"No, no," Meg shook her head, passing the letter over and pointing to the phrase. Her mother read it quickly, a rare, genuine smile spreading across her face.

"It's about time!" she exclaimed. "I was wondering when this would happen, though I think I expected Erik to make the first move. It's a shame her father has such a problem with it, though. I believe I may have unintentionally communicated the wrong message about Erik to him. Give him time, I think that's the only thing that will help."

"I'll write her back now, I just wish we could talk about this face to face," Meg said, turning to make her way to her room.

_Dear Juliet,_

_ You were right, it reached me on New Year's Eve. I hope your holiday season was full of joy and I'm sorry we couldn't spend it together. Making gingerbread cookies alone isn't nearly as much fun as it is with a friend._

_ Speaking of joy, my goodness! You and Erik, together! It came as quite the surprise to me, but mother says she's been expecting it to happen. I'm happy for you, as is she. A more wholehearted gentleman you will never find. _

_ As far as your father goes... to be honest, I'm not quite sure what to say. Mother says give it time. I think time and subtle nudging in the right direction should help at least a little._

_ As far as _he _(I won't say the name either, you can't be too careful) goes, it's been quiet. Perhaps a bit too quiet. I'll keep an ear and an eye open._

_ Write soon!_

_ Yours,_

_ Meg Giry_

Meg finished the letter and folded it carefully, ruffling both hands through her hair and closing her eyes when she was done. She hoped there wouldn't be any trouble from Gaston, but that would be far and away too good to be true.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo O

Nadir Khan didn't know quite what possessed him to go to the post office on New Year's Eve. Maybe it was in anticipation of a letter from a friend in Persia, surprisingly he did still have at least a few of those, perhaps it was because he needed an excuse to think about something other than Gaston Rosseau. He knew he had seen him clearly during the underground confrontation and Nadir imagined that it would only be a matter of time before the young man decided to come after him for information on Erik's whereabouts.

He buried himself deeply into his coat as he walked, guarding himself against the bitter wind. Halfway to the post office, he had no time to react when a hand shot out from the alley he was passing and threw him against the wall. A huff of breath was forced from his lungs by the hands that held him tightly against the rough bricks. "I haven't got any money if that's what you're after," he panted.

"Money? No, I have quite enough of that, thank you," a voice like abrasive silk invaded his ear and Nadir shivered, he knew that voice. Only one person had a voice like that.

"What do you want from me, Gaston?" Nadir asked, attempting to betray no emotions whatsoever.

"Oh, I wouldn't play ignorant if I were you, Monsieur," the former leading man snarled. "Not if you value your life to any degree." Nadir didn't doubt that the statement was anything less than a promise. At this point, he was sure Gaston was willing to do just about anything to exact his revenge.

Still, he wasn't about to endanger Erik and Juliet. "You'll have to be a bit more specific than that, I'm afraid. Not as sharp as I used to be, you see," he said airily, feeling his rocketing pulse betray him. The madman wasn't fooled in the slightest. His hold tightened on Nadir's arm enough to ensure there would be bruising the next morning.

"You were there, you saw that damned Opera Ghost make off with Juliet Leroux," he said, a strange gleam entering his eyes that made him look positively deranged. "In fact, you helped them escape. You know where they went and you're going to tell me where."

"What if I told you I haven't the faintest idea where they are?" Nadir lied easily. He prided himself greatly on his poker face and used it to his advantage in this situation. "I saw them leave, but they didn't tell me where they were going."

Gaston grunted in frustration when he realized Nadir wasn't going to yield any useful information at that current moment. "This isn't the last you'll hear from me, Persian," he barked, releasing him and slinking away angrily.

"You've read a few too many adventure novels, Monsieur Rosseau," Nadir called after the enraged young man, feeling his stomach sink low in his abdomen. When he was out of sight, a long sigh heaved from deep in the Persian's chest and he slumped against the wall as though all his energy had suddenly drained out of him. "Oh Erik, Juliet," he muttered quietly. "Please be constantly on your guard, won't you?"

In the post office, he got Monsieur Delacleur's attention. "Oh, hello Monsieur Khan," he said brightly. "How are you this morning? You look a bit pale, I hope you're not ill."

Nadir forced a smile and shook his head, clasping his hands together to stop them shaking. "No, I don't think I'm ill, Monsieur Delacleur. Thanks much for your concern, though. Is there any post for me this morning?" The old man nodded and disappeared behind the counter for a moment, bringing a letter up with him.

"Yes, there is one, all the way from Normandy," he said, handing him the crisp envelope. There wasn't a return address, but there wouldn't need to be. It could only be Juliet, since she was presumed dead in Paris. He tried hard not to show that he was equal parts overjoyed and worried out of his mind for what he might read in the letter.

"Thank you, Monsieur. Have a good New Year's Eve," Nadir bid him a hasty goodbye and stepped outside, hailing a carriage. He wanted to get home as fast as he could, and was not eager to go walking alone again.

Back at his flat, he stepped inside quickly after paying the driver and slid the blade of his pocketknife under the seal of the envelope. He couldn't get the letter out fast enough and read it, eyes whizzing across the paper. He sighed with relief and a broad smile crossed his face halfway through the letter. He wanted to cry out with relief. They were both safe and in love no less!

He chuckled, dropping into the seat of his writing desk. "Erik, you're a lucky man. I hope you know that." He composed a letter to Juliet.

_Dear Juliet,_

_ I'm well, and I'm glad you and Erik are doing well. To be honest, I've been worrying about you. Don't you dare tell Erik I said that, though._

_ I think I would call that 'in love.' You've been looking at each other in a way that suggested you were smitten for some time. But, congratulations nonetheless. It's wonderful to hear about new love._

_ As for your father, I'm sorry to hear that. He sounds, to me anyway, like a very stubborn man who loves his daughter very much and wants the best for her. I think he needs to see that you and Erik are happy together and that you're truly in love. Easier said than done to convince him, I'm sure._

_ Funny you should mention him. Had I gotten this letter yesterday, I would say everything is unusually quiet. Today, however, I had a bit of a run-in with him. He demanded to know where you two were. I didn't tell him, and I don't intend to. What you must understand now is that he is obsessed with finding the two of you and he's hell-bent on it. I would advise you to be very careful for the time being. I don't want him to get to either of you because it would spell disaster. He's mad, Juliet, and has nothing to lose. That makes him doubly dangerous._

_ Please, be careful. And have a good start to the new year. I remain,_

_ Yours sincerely,_

_ Nadir Khan_

He folded the letter and put it in an envelope. He'd mail it later in the day, when he wasn't so afraid to go out of the house.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo O

Gaston snarled to himself as he paced back and forth in his flat. The Persian was too loyal to give him information under any pressure. He could probably threaten him with death and still not get a thing out of him. No, he was far too loyal to his freak of a friend, though Gaston couldn't imagine that one could actually be 'friends' with a monster.

"I'm trying, Philippe, Armel, I promise you that," he whispered, laying on the couch and rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He needed a new plan, that was certain. But what could it possibly be?

_Come on, Gaston, think,_ he thought, screwing his eyes shut and breathing in and out slowly, nearly putting himself in a trance. _There has to be someone who can tell me where they are._ For at least an hour, he wracked his brains for the answer, spending a long time staring at the ceiling as though the perfect answer might come floating down from the heavens and present itself to him. Of course, it didn't. Gaston had spent enough time doing that after his brother's death to know it wouldn't.

The fates must have been feeling especially kind that day, however, for suddenly he had the perfect answer.

How had it taken him so long to think of it?

It was perfect, and would've been so much easier than messing about with the Persian.

Leaping up, he was pulling his coat on as he rushed out the door. He was looking for a man he'd met during one of his long stints in the bar recently. The man was an ex-soldier and had a talent for pulling off perfect crimes, specifically kidnapping, without any detection whatsoever. They'd ended up talking about how life had dealt them unfair deals and Gaston had spilled about his problem with the Opera Ghost and Juliet. The man had told him that if he ever needed help with what he was doing, he'd help him for a sum of money.

Gaston was short of many things, money was absolutely not one of them.

After about an hour of searching, he found the man leaning against the front of a convenience store and smoking copiously. Gaston slid next to him and pulled out a cigarette of his own, lighting it and taking a long pull. "Are you still open to doing a little work for me?" he muttered out the side of his mouth.

The man exhaled a long ribbon of smoke before answering. "Depends on how much you're offering," he replied nonchalantly, readjusting the hat on his head.

Gaston pulled a sizable bag of coins, the exact amount was unknown to him, and shook it lightly, just enough to make the satisfying clink of coins hitting against each other audible. "Does that sound like it would be enough for you?"

The man's eyes widened just a little, clouding with greed and he leaned forward, his breath rasping in his throat eagerly. "Possibly, Monsieur, depending on what the job is."

Gaston leaned in still further. "I need you to bring me someone who may have the information I need."

"Mm, and exactly how well-known or important is this person?"

"It all depends on your point of view. Her mother is quite well-known."

"Female? That's a different sort of job, Monsieur. There are significant differences in kidnapping a woman as opposed to a man. Not necessarily more dangerous, but certainly more tedious. Women tend to be more alert than men when they're alone."

Gaston sighed, extracting another, smaller, bag of money from his pocket and tossing it over. He had suspected that he might run into a problem like this. This veteran was like almost any other human being in existence. This meant he was greedy and always looking for a way to get more money out of a situation. The man nodded approvingly and stuck it in his pocket next to the other one.

"Will that be enough?"

"Yes, I believe so. Your generosity is appreciated greatly, Monsieur. I just have one question now."

"And the question is?"

"Who is it exactly that I'm supposed to be finding? You never did give me a name."

Gaston grinned conspiratorially. "Have you ever heard of Meg Giry?"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo O

André Leroux sat alone at a café, stirring a spoon idly in his coffee. The cream had been long since evenly distributed, but André was a nervous stirrer by nature and this upcoming meeting was doing nothing for his bad habit. So, the cream continued to take an unintentionally harsh beating. He hoped that setting up this meeting hadn't been a mistake, most of him thought it was a good idea, but a small part of him kept stubbornly telling him it was none of his business to interfere.

"Monsieur Leroux?" A voice caused him to look up. A young man stood hesitantly next to the table. He had dark blonde hair, bluish-green eyes, and a slight, yet well-built frame. His nervous smile caused two identical dimples to appear on his cheeks.

André looked up and smiled, attempting to put the boy at ease. "Ah yes, Tristan. You've grown a bit since I properly saw you last." His last statement appeared to break the ice a bit, Tristan's shoulders loosened up and he pulled the chair out to sit down. He had yet to lose his teenage gangly limbs and still moved a bit awkwardly.

"I should expect so, the last time you really saw me I was eleven," he chuckled, drawing the menu in front of himself and examining his options. André waited until he had made a decision and called a waiter over to order before he spoke again.

"Goodness, has it really been that long? How time flies! I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, since Juliet's grown up too." He paused for effect. "You haven't seen much of Juliet either since then, have you?"

Tristan shook his head. "Not until the Christmas party. Now that I think about it, she was always gone so much that I hadn't seen her since we were barely teenagers. Though, I didn't see her for too long that night either. She introduced me to her friend, I forget his name now, and hurried away to talk to someone else."

The interruption of the waiter bringing coffee for Tristan gave André time to take a sip of his own drink and wash the bad taste out of his mouth that invariably came along with mention of _him_. "Oh, yes. Erik. Tell me, what did you think of him?"

One shoulder raised and lowered in careful indifference. "I don't think I can truthfully answer that question. I only met him briefly. He seems very quiet and introverted, but I'm sure it was the nerves of being somewhere unfamiliar. The mask was interesting, I'll say that. But, if he's a friend of Juliet's, I'm sure he's a perfectly upstanding gentleman."

André saw his chance and leapt on it like a cat upon a fat mouse, throwing any caution he had straight out the window. "And that is where we run into discrepancy. I've had the rather dubious pleasure of getting to know him, as he's currently boarding with us until he finds a place of residence and a job. You see, he and Juliet met when she was in Paris. Somehow, Juliet believes she loves him and he her. I do not trust that man at all, and my Juliet deserves better than a man who is simply stringing her along for the sake of it."

His embellishment hit home just as he had wanted it to; Tristan's fists clenched momentarily around his cup and his mouth thinned itself just a little. "Why on Earth would he use Juliet? Is he really so bad?" his voice was incredulous.

André nodded empathetically, almost in disbelief that his plan, a plan he hadn't admittedly thought out overly thoroughly, was working so well. "Very much so. He lived beneath an Opera House for years, all alone. The mask on his face conceals a terrible deformity, I've seen it myself. One can imagine that he's probably killed before as well; I refuse to believe that all the 'accidents' Juliet wrote to me about were really just that. My guess is that Juliet feels sorry for him. You know how she can be in that aspect."

Tristan nodded in understanding. "Yes, she was always like that. Goodness, I feel sorry for her. In all likelihood, she feels like she's obligated to be with him."

"I'm sure she does! I just wish I knew what to do about it. I'm at a bit of a loss, she won't listen to me."

The look on the young man's face suggested that he was thinking exactly what André had hoped he would. "If only I could help."

André feigned a sudden idea. "Perhaps you can..."

"In what way?"

"You got along well enough with Juliet when you were young, am I right?"

"Yes, if I recall correctly we did."

"And, if my memory serves me rightly, you fancied her a little?"

Tristan flushed bright red and stared intently into the depths of his nearly empty coffee cup. "Was I really so obvious? I did, and still do."

"Tristan, I hope you know I don't especially like to poke around in my daughter's business, I don't think any father does. But I also believe that most fathers don't like to see their daughters disillusioned by a man pretending to be far better than he is. If you could help me, I would be in your debt."

The younger man nodded firmly. André had made his point well. "What can I do?"

"Ask her to dinner, be charming to her, show her what a true gentleman is like."

They briskly shook hands and André was left alone with his thoughts. He offered up a silent prayer to the skies. _Please, Lord, give me some sign that I've made the right decision in going through with this._ There was, of course, no answer.

**A/N: Well, was that enough foreshadowing for you? What did you think?**

**Review, please! :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Juliet and Erik return! Enjoy!**

Juliet laid her masquerade costume out on her bed, arranging the various pieces of it. The dress was a soft gold color with darker gold highlights in various places and her mask was light gold as well with a sparkly edging. Bridgette helped her pick it out, insisting it brought out the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes.

Erik, feeling uncomfortable around her father, had moved out of the guest bedroom and into a flat about a block away. Her father had been a shade of poorly disguised delighted when this occurred, which irritated Juliet in ways she could not express. However, they continued to see each other and grew ever closer, much to the older man's dismay.

A knock at the door brought Juliet trotting out of her room to see who it was. When she opened the door, a hazily familiar face greeted her. "Hello, Juliet," he said with a slightly shy smile, brushing an errant strand of hair out of his eyes.

For the life of her, Juliet could not place who it was and turned slightly pink. "If you don't mind my asking, who are you, exactly?" she inquired, hoping she didn't sound too blunt or rude.

Her comment didn't seem to faze him. "Well, I suppose it's been a long time since we met properly, hasn't it? I only saw you for a fleeting instant at the party on Christmas Eve," he said pleasantly and Juliet suddenly recognized the handsome young man as Tristan Durand, one of her closest friends from childhood.

"Tristan? My goodness, it's been a long time!" she exclaimed. "Won't you come in?" Juliet hadn't really sean Tristan since she was eleven or twelve. Together, they'd driven both of their fathers to their wits' end with various escapades that left them giggling and the men nearly tearing their hair out.

He flushed a little. "Ah, no. No thank you. I was just wondering if, um, if you'd like to go to the masquerade ball with me?" he stumbled over his words gracelessly. Juliet fidgeted, she had already made plans for a walk, dinner and then the dance with Erik. Her stitches had come out the day before, revealing that, unsurprisingly, Juliet had another scar to add to her collection. Erik was angry all over again when the doctor told him about it.

"I'm sorry, but I think I'll have to decline," she said apologetically. "Erik and I are already going together." His face fell, shoulders slumping. "I do have some time if you'd like to go to lunch, though," she suddenly said, not liking to see her childhood friend sad.

He perked up a bit she couldn't help but think he looked a little like a puppy with wide, pleading eyes, somewhat large ears, and a hopeful countenance. "That sounds lovely, would now suit you? I'm sorry, I tend to be a bit sudden at times," he said, hands shoved deep in his pockets. She smiled gently, getting her cloak from the rack beside the door. As much as she liked Tristan, she had a fraction of a memory he was a chatterbox to say the least.

The memory proved to be unfortunately accurate; he only came up for air when they arrived at the restaurant and he requested a table for two. He was recounting their many escapades as children which made Juliet laugh at times, but her head was also pounding from the constant deluge of speech. She hoped he would cease a little when they got their food.

"How was Paris?" he inquired after they were seated and eating. "Your father said you were working as a chorus girl at the Opera Populaire?"

Juliet nodded, wondering just how much her father had spoken to him about. "Yes, for two years. I was prima donna for a very short time before I left to come back home." His eyes widened in surprise and he took her hand in a gesture of congratulations, his palms sweating profusely.

"That's wonderful! But why did you leave?"

"There was a fire and I decided to come home. Erik lived at the Opera House since he worked there—" she wasn't entirely sure _worked_ was the right choice of words for Erik's role at the Opera Populaire, "—and he expressed a desire to come to Normandy to seek work here."

Tristan stiffened almost imperceptibly at the mention of the former Opera Ghost, but continued in the conversation as though nothing happened. "Has he found work yet?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but I know he's looking. I'll ask him when I see him."

Soon, their conversation turned to lighter topics, like what Tristan had been doing since the last time they had a chance to properly chat. As it turned out, he'd applied for a position at the architecture school in Normandy and was now apprenticed to one of the more notable architects in the city.

"Really? What an amazing turn of luck! I had no idea you had such an interest in building, Tristan," Juliet said, smiling over the rim of her tea cup at him. He flushed with pride, beaming widely.

"Thank you. Well, to be honest, I didn't either. Initially, I wanted to go to the art college a few blocks from here but my mother and father insisted that painting would only lead to a hard life without much money." His shoulders dropped momentarily.

"That's not necessarily true though," said Juliet, feeling sorry for the young man. She remembered he had shown quite an aptitude for art in primary school. "There are plenty of artists who are successful and well-to-do."

"Perhaps, but architecture is still sort of like art, yes? Only, I'm drawing buildings that haven't been built yet, rather than ones that have been around for quite some time."

"I suppose you have a point. You're happy with what you're doing, right?"

"Yes, of course. The work is satisfying and my employer is very good to me."

"Then I think that's all that matters." Juliet looked at the clock behind Tristan's head and started. "Oh my, is it really this late already? I should go." She nodded a goodbye and stood as if to leave, but Tristan caught her hand tightly. His eyes were wide.

"Will I see you again?" he asked and then caught himself, blushing furiously. She laughed at his dramatic act which she would later come to know was not as much of an act as she previously thought.

"Certainly, silly! I live here now, I can pop by to say hello or vice versa as often as you like. Maybe I'll see you tonight. I'll save a dance for you just in case." She softly pulled her hand from his, donned her cloak, and left the restaurant. Only in the future would she realize her last statement was exactly the wrong thing to say to Tristan. He watched her leave with eager puppy-dog eyes.

Quickly, she made her way to Erik's flat and knocked twice briskly. He opened the door with a happy smile on his face. Juliet noticed he always looked a little unsure of himself when he smiled, as though he hadn't smiled much before now and wasn't entirely sure he was doing it right. Just a bit of his deformity extended to the right corner of his mouth but in her opinion, he had the best smile in the world because it was always so heartfelt.

"Good afternoon, mademoiselle, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.

"Unless my memory serves me poorly, I believe the man of this house promised me a walk down by the river. Am I mistaken?" she teased, stepping inside. "Is he in?" Erik closed the door behind her.

"Why yes," he replied, tugging her flush against him and leaning down to touch his forehead to hers. Butterflies fluttered madly in her stomach. "I believe he is."

Juliet laughed, pecking him on the lips quickly. "You seem to be in a good mood today, why would that be?"

He took her hand, leading her to the sitting room. "A certain someone, who shall remain me, got a job this morning that promises to pay very well."

"Fantastic! What sort of job is it?" Juliet queried, perching on the edge of the couch and waiting for Erik to get his coat and hat.

"I'll be teaching private music lessons on piano, organ, violin, and voice at the Opera for those who would like to expand their repertoire of musical ability and also for young children." He paused for a beat, taking in her expression. "Don't worry, my students will be a wide variety of ages and I'll always be face-to-face with them during the lessons," he added, most likely recalling the misadventures known as Christine's lessons through the mirror at the Opera Populaire.

"The thought never crossed my mind," said Juliet, getting up and crossing the room to tuck her arm through Erik's. "Shall we go?" He nodded and they made their way to the front door, only to be stopped halfway by Ayesha. She bumped her head against their legs and looked at the door meaningfully.

"I don't think so, my lovely feline," Erik shook his head, a half smile dancing across his mouth as he scooped the Siamese cat up and deposited her in an armchair across the room. "You would not like this weather, believe me."

She yowled in protest as they stepped out and closed the door. "If I didn't know better, I'd say she was a person masquerading as a cat," Juliet giggled.

"I would not be at all surprised if she were," Erik said. "She's done enough out of the ordinary things to make me believe just about anything is possible."

Until they reached the river, neither Erik not Juliet said much, but merely enjoyed each other's company. While they walked, Juliet rested her head on Erik's shoulder. A slight twitch shuddered through his arm and it felt to her like he was shying away for a brief instant before relaxing into her touch. Tilting her head to the side inquisitively, she stopped and pulled gently on Erik's arm so he came around to face her. It wasn't the first time she noticed something like this.

"Something on your mind, mon ange?" he asked.

She chewed on her lip, trying to decide how to best phrase her question. "Erik do I... do I make you uncomfortable at all?" she asked, mentally smacking herself. _If you were looking for smooth, that was the exact opposite of it, _she thought.

He frowned hesitantly, seemingly unsure of how to respond. "Why would you ask that? I can't think of anyone I feel _more _comfortable around. Have I not been acting properly around you?" He looked extremely concerned and ready to apologize profusely.

She shook her head, ready to head him off. "Oh no, you've been perfectly lovely to me, better than any man I've ever met," she reassured him, caressing his cheek. "It's just that sometimes I put my head on your shoulder or lean into you and you flinch away. Am I moving too quickly? I'm terribly sorry if I am and I can slow down."

"Your'e not moving too fast Juliet, I promise you," he said. "It's rather complicated, but you're the first woman I've had a real relationship with and the kiss we shared on Christmas Eve... that was only the second kiss I've received in my life. Certainly the first truly unrestrained one. I'm just a it unaccustomed to affection of any sort, I think. I apologize."

Juliet stood on tiptoe so she was almost eye to eye with the man she loved—drat their height differences!—and met his gaze. "Don't ever apologize for that, Erik. It's not your fault, it never has been and it never will be." She kissed him softly, running her hands through his hair. When they broke contact Erik grinned, placing his hands on her hips.

"If this is how affection in relationships is supposed to work, I believe I could very easily get used to it."

Amiable conversation replaced the confrontation of feelings. At one point Juliet dropped back under the pretense of re-lacing her boot, but she was really packing a snowball together, which she quickly tossed at Erik's turned back. It skipped past his arm like a hand trying to get his attention. He turned in question and was met with a winning smile from Juliet. Shrugging, he resumed his earlier position. A second snowball made contact with his back and he whirled around just in time to see Juliet wiping the snow from her hands.

"Sneaky," he chuckled. "But nothing ever escapes the attention of the Phantom of the Opera!" As he spoke, he swiftly dropped to one knee and lobbed a snowball at her skirt. Shrieking with laughter she darted out of the way, feeling it catch at the deep purple material.

"Now you've done it," she said in a mock-ominous voice. "Have you ever heard of the saying, 'you bother the bull and you get the horns'?" She placed her index fingers on either side of her head and wiggled them.

He laughed, dodging one of her return missiles. "On a number of occasions, especially when someone was speaking of La Carlotta."

Eventually the snowball fight was abandoned and they chased each other between the trees, laughing and shouting the whole time. Juliet caught up to Erik and pounced on him playfully. He lost his balance in the fluffy new snow and they fell to the ground. Juliet laid on Erik's chest and he blinked up at her in surprise.

Suddenly, he gasped. "I didn't hurt you did I, my love? Your injury—"

She kissed him. "No pain here, love. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I think so—" he stopped abruptly, his right hand flying up to cover his face. "Where is my mask?"

Juliet became aware of the fact that his mask must have fallen off during their romp in the snow. He plastered his hand to his face, the other half rapidly draining of color. "I'll look for it," she said, sliding off his chest and digging around in the snow, cursing the fact that his mask was the same color as the cold substance. After a moment, her hands encountered something hard and smooth. Delicately removing it, she wiped the mask clean and handed it back to Erik. "It'll be cold," she warned. He nodded, pressing it back into place and hooking the tie around the back of his head.

Just before the mask went on again, Juliet caught her second glimpse of the deformity that made it necessary, in his mind at least, for him to hide from the world. The skin was extraordinarily thin in some places, making his veins clearly visible. It had obviously never seen the sun and was a sallow, yellow color. In some places, the skin bubbled and twisted in what looked like permanent wounds. His lips were swelled and dead-looking on the right side. She felt a rush of sympathy for him and stood up as he did, kissing his cheek.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"It was nothing," she replied, hugging him tightly.

"No, I meant, thank you for understanding."

They stayed out far longer than they intended to and nearly missed their dinner reservations. It was a quick in and out sort of meal so both would have time to get ready for the ball.

When Juliet got home, her father was wearing a plain black suit and an elegant, emerald hued mask. He sprang to his feet at the sight of her slightly disheveled state. "What happened?" he demanded.

"A snowball fight, papa. Don't go calling the police," she said dryly. He flushed irritably.

"I saw Tristan earlier. He said you two had lunch." There was something oddly eager in her father's voice, which made Juliet frown.

"Yes we did. Excuse me, Erik's coming to pick me up in about an hour and I need to get ready."

His face fell. "You're not going with Tristan?"

Juliet restrained an eye roll mightily. "No papa, I'm not. Erik asked first. I said I'd save a dance for him, though. We've been over this, Erik and I are together and we're both happy. Why can't you be?" She sighed and brushed past him, locking her bedroom door behind her.

Not wanting to be late, she quickly brushed out her hair and twisted it into a simple updo, into which she wove a few pearl strands from her aunt on her sixteenth birthday. Since she would be wearing a mask, she only put on minimal makeup. Carefully, she wiggled into her dress and fastened the buttons on the back. It pooled at her feet like molten sunlight. On went the mask and she tied it securely above the knot of her hair. A knock at the door made her hurriedly step into her shoes and snatch up her purse before dashing down the stairs to get there before her father did.

She just beat him to it. "Hello, Erik," she said as he took her hand and kissed it delicately. "You look wonderful." She turned to her father and pecked him swiftly on the cheek before turning back to Erik.

"You look absolutely stunning," he said, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. Together, they got into the carriage that Erik hired since he hadn't had time to buy one or employ a driver.

"Sorry about papa," she said. "He still doesn't get it. I'll make sure to tell him you've got a job tonight." Juliet laid her head against Erik's arm. He, like her father, wore a plain yet nice suit. But his mask was far more grandiose. It was white, but it covered his whole face save his mouth and eyes and was edged in a bold red. In Juliet's opinion, it was far better than the Red Death costume because there was no looming sense of dread or impending disaster.

"I'm not sure that will help, but it's certainly worth a try I suppose," said Erik, putting an arm around her shoulders.

At the dance, they managed to dance for three songs uninterrupted before Tristan popped up. "May I cut in?" he queried quietly, shuffling his feet awkwardly. Juliet nodded, allowing herself to be led away by her childhood friend.

As they danced, Juliet winced at regular intervals. Tristan was a supremely awful dancer and stepped on her toes regularly. He apologized about half of the time because he the other half he didn't realize he was doing it.

"Juliet, you wouldn't happen to be free some time soon for dinner, would you?" he asked after apologizing for crushing her toes for the hundredth time.

"I'm not sure," she lied, giving him a sharp glance of inquiry. I'll let you know if I have a free spot in my schedule." The song ended and Juliet got herself back into Erik's arms as soon as possible.

"Who was that?" he asked as they walked toward the refreshments table.

"A friend of mine from when I was young. His name is Tristan Durand. He's just a friend." At that moment the clock struck midnight and Erik and Juliet shared a sweet kiss that spoke without words of hope, joy, and promise in the new year.

She would only find out some time later how wrong Tristan thought her previous statement was.

**A/N: Bum bum BUUUMMM! Drama!**

**Guys, do you remember the mercenary veteran Gaston was talking to in the last chapter? Should I give him a more prominent part or keep him in the background? 'Cause I have an idea, but I'd like some feedback before I actually write the chapter.**

**Review? :)**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Hello! I actually wrote most of this on a flight to a business competition, it's a wonder what will come of a nearly five hour flight.**

A man sat perched precariously on the edge of a fire escape, binoculars held to his eyes. He watched a young blonde woman hurry into the house across the street. This was the third day he'd been watching and he thought he had jut about enough information to carry out the work he was commissioned to do.

His name was Brishan. For a year and a half, he was in the army until he was arrested for insubordination to one of his superior officers. The intention was for him to be sent to prison, but he escaped and had been on the run ever since. He was good at that, though. He'd been on the move from place to place all his life and this wasn't much different than being with the band of gypsies he grew up in.

When M. Rosseau had come to him with the job request, he readily accepted. This was in part because he needed the money and also because he had a vendetta of his own against the man M. Rosseau described, except he'd gone by a rather different name the last he heard of him. Brishan's uncle was the leader of the gypsies he traveled with and his name had been Javert. The reason for the usage of the past tense was unfortunate. An attraction they'd had in their rather macabre circus—called the Devil's Child—killed his uncle by stabbing him and vanished into the night.

Brishan was the one to find him and he was only eleven years old at the time. It made a lasting impression on him since he was so young and ever since then he vowed if he saw that hideous fiend again he would kill him on sight. When M. Rosseau described the so-called 'Opera Ghost' that had killed his brother and his friend and had spirited away the woman of his affections, Brishan knew it could only be the Devil's Child. All grown up now though, he supposed. He had every intention of going along with Monsieur Rosseau when he knew the location.

"I'm coming for you, Devi's Child," he murmured, staring up at the sky. "Can you sense it? Do you tremble when you think of it? I'll make you pay for murdering my uncle."

His uncle would be able to rest in peace at long last. Brishan would make no mistake about that. The monster would answer for his crime.

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Erik paced the floor nervously in his flat, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Today was his first day as a music teacher and though he knew he had no reason to be nervous, his heart was hammering in his chest. What if something went wrong? He'd been told some of his students were quite young, what if they were terrified of him? Annoyed with himself, he stopped before he wore a hole in the floor and sighed deeply. _What will happen will happen._

A soft meow attracted his attention. Ayesha laid languidly on her side on the sofa, stretching luxuriously, which was her way of asking for attention from her master. She always knew just when to distract him and avoid a complete nervous breakdown on his part. He walked over to her and ran a hand over her side, causing a content purr to rumble in her chest. "Some days I wonder how I would manage without you, cheri," he told her. She looked at him and seemed to say, _don't_ _I know_. He chuckled, and scratched her ears the way she liked best.

A knock at the door made him brush the cat hair off his suit and open the door. Juliet put her hands on her hips as soon as she saw him. "You've been worrying about your job again, haven't you?" she inquired. "It's going to be just fine, relax a little." She reached up to caress his cheek, fingertips just a little cold from the winter air. "I'll go with you if you'd like."

He shook his head in the negative. "No, mon amour. I'll be all right, you needn't worry yourself." The truth was actually that he didn't want to be escorted to the building like a child who clings to his mother's skirts on the first day of school. If he were going to start a new life, he could begin with being just a little more confident in public areas.

"I'm going there anyway. I thought I might see if there are any auditions in the near future for places in the chorus," Juliet replied.

"I'm certain you could be prima donna again," he told her, pulling his hood over his face and offering her his arm. Juliet shrugged, pressing herself against him. Her face spoke the lack of confidence she felt.

"I don't know, Erik," she sighed. "As much as I'd like to be prima donna again, part of me is saying no. A very large part of me. I don't want to attract too much attention to myself and thereby you." He knew instantly to what she was referring. Or rather, to whom.

"You're still worried about Gaston." It was less a question than it was a statement: he could see the fear of the unbalanced man written across her face as plainly as if she'd printed it in bold ink. Truth be told, Erik wasn't exactly looking forward to their next meeting—and it was inevitable, he was sure—either.

"Of course I am," she murmured, pausing in conversation long enough to step around a puddle of slush. "He attacked M. Khan in order to get information just the other day! I just got a letter from him saying so. I don't think he'd say anything—"

"He'd better not," Erik interrupted darkly. There were a few too many incidents concerning the Persian for him to fully trust the man.

"But he might get seriously hurt or someone else might," Juliet continued. "I don't want to broadcast my position because he'd be after you in a heartbeat. I don't ever want to lose you. And yet, I can't stand to see anyone else get hurt. I don't know what to do," she groaned, sounding so very lost.

"Mon ange, you can't control what will happen," he said, rubbing her hand softly with his thumb. "Do an audition; what happens after that isn't in your power to control."

She smiled gratefully at him. They arrived at the Opera and were forced to part ways. "Thank you for the confidence boost, Erik. I think I needed it more than I let myself admit."

"Any time, he replied, kissing her swiftly before finding his way to the music wing and locating his room. He was in there for scarcely two minutes before a small knock came at his door. It was a child, given the location of the knock. He opened the door to see a young boy who couldn't have been more than nine years old. His eyes were a startling sea foam green and a shock of wild black curls nearly obscured them.

"Are you Monsieur Erik Destler?" the boy inquired in a surprisingly clear and intelligent-sounding voice for one so young. He showed none of the timidity so commonly associated with meeting a stranger at that age.

Erik had done a bit of research and found out his surname was supposed to be Destler, so he adopted it. Before then, he'd never really known what it was nor cared to. However, in finding a job one realizes one needs a last name.

Erik nodded. "I am. And you are..." he trailed off, embarrassed he didn't know the names of his students. The child showed no such reservations.

"Corbett Valois. My mother wants me to study the violin, but I'm not so certain I want to," he said simply and Erik was struck once again by the frank candor of a child.

Erik gestured for the boy to sit down and did the same before he spoke. "Oh?" he asked, folding his hands on his desk. "Why is that?"

"Because it's pointless. Music is boring," he declared. Erik would have been quite peeved at any other time by that statement. However, the sight of the young boy with his arms crossed tightly across his chest and bottom lip stuck out petulantly made him want to laugh. He only narrowly stopped himself.

"Boring?" he repeated in a tone which invited elaboration. Corbett didn't disappoint.

"All it is is repeating notes drawn in a pattern," he explained as though it were the simplest thing to grasp in the world. "It doesn't use any real smarts." Ah, so he was dealing with a young braniac then.

"Well, you must use your brain to read the notes," Erik began. "But it's not music until you can feel it from _here._" He stood, went over to the boy, and tapped him lightly on the chest, right above where his heart would be. He remained in the same, unimpressed position, arms crossed tightly. A sigh tapped at Erik's lips, begging for release into a full blown sigh of annoyance.

"Prove it?" he suddenly blurted out.

"Let's make a deal," Erik said, crouching down in front of the boy. 'If I fail to impress you, I'll give you the money your mother paid me and you may go home. However, if I manage to make some sort of impression upon you of the favorable sort, you'll try at least one lesson. Agreed?" He held his hand out and the boy flinched ever so slightly, like he was awaiting a blow. Erik's eyebrows furrowed.

Then he flushed like he thought he was being foolish. "Agreed," he murmured softly, sticking his small, smooth hand into Erik's much larger one.

"Right then." He began to unpack his violin, tuning the strings and rubbing a light coating of rosin on his bow. What to play? What could possibly capture the very essence of how music could feel if one feels it from one's heart, hears it from one's soul? There was always... no. He vowed he would never play the song he played for _her _in the graveyard at midnight ever again. Too many memories would be brought back, ones he'd tried so hard to suppress. That part of his life was behind him now. Maybe... would it work? It wasn't done yet, but it was easily the most directly emotional piece he'd ever written. It was a sort of autobiography in song form.

"Well?" the child interrupted. Oh, he was a persistent one.

"Patience, I was merely finding the right song," Erik said, lifting his violin to his chin and settling the bow lightly on the strings, watching the small puff of rosin rise into the air and settle. He drew a long, deep breath and began to play. As ever, the music seemed to claim his body, taking it over like a living entity. He swayed gently back and forth in time, eyes closed and face relaxed, truly relaxed.

The song could have gone on for eternity, it may have lasted only seconds. Erik couldn't tell; time lost meaning when he played or sang. When the song finished, he slowly lowered the bow and lifted his chin from the rest on the instrument. Upon opening his eyes, he saw the boy sitting there with a slightly dazed expression on his face. The blue-green eyes were open wide and slightly distant, the small mouth slack with wonder. Erik hid a grin behind his hand. He couldn't have hoped for a better result.

"Well?" he repeated the boy's earlier question back to him.

"How do you _do_ that?" Corbett breathed.

"As I said, I play from my heart, not my mind."

"That song... it was very sad, but the ending was happier."

"Yes," Erik murmured, sitting down again. "Yes, I suppose it was."

"Teach me how to do that," he demanded, almost immediately shrinking and whispering, "Sorry, sir. Could you please show me how to do that?"

Erik wondered what would give the boy cause to shrink so when he did something he feared would be considered wrong. "Well, I can certainly try. But you have to truly want to play. Do you?"

"Yes, yes!" he cried. Erik chuckled, pulling out a basic chart of notes.

"All right, then. Let's start by looking at these, shall we?"

The remainder of the lesson passed by in a flash and soon Corbett was on his way out the door, violin case in hand, a wide smile on his face. It wasn't until his next lesson, which was with a young girl in her early teens who wanted to sing, that he realized something. The girl's eyes had immediately flown to his mask and she hardly spoke another word for the duration of the lesson. But the boy hadn't mentioned the mask once. He hadn't even really paid it any special attention. Children never ceased to confuse and amaze him.

By the end of the day he was exhausted, but content. His new job made him quite happy, it was good to be teaching music again.

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Juliet took a deep breath, hand on the doorknob that led to the choral practice rooms. The managers—who were quite a lot nicer than Firmin and Andre, especially since one of them was her uncle—told her they were holding auditions that week since it was the end of the contractual period and they were deciding whether or not to extend several contracts. _Breathe, Juliet. In and out,_ she reminded herself. _You know how your throat constricts when you get nervous._

"Mademoiselle Leroux?" An older man who Juliet knew very well popped his head around the door, a smile lighting up his face at the sight of her.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Blanc," she beamed. "I didn't know you were still directing here!" He enveloped her in a warm hug that smelled of the musty pages of music he immersed himself in most of the time.

"I couldn't think of doing anything else, mon cheri," he replied, holding her at arm's length. "Oh, look at you! Quite different from the little Julie who would come running in here with a wide eyed stare to watch the singers rehearse, yes?"

Juliet blushed. "Yes, I would suppose so."

"So," the older man said, returning to business. "You're here for an audition? I haven't heard you sing for a long time, but I did catch wind that you were the prima donna at Garnier's opera house."

Juliet nodded, smiling through the flurry of butterflies evidently doing aerobics in her abdomen. "Yes sir, I was."

He shook his head. "Shame the old place burned down, I liked going there on my infrequent stops to Paris." Stopping abruptly, he leaned down and put his mouth next to her ear. His voice was barely above a breath, urgent, inquiring. "What's all the business with the Phantom, then? I heard he vanished after the Daaé affair. Died, perhaps. But your friend M. Destler is making me think otherwise."

Juliet stopped her jaw before it could take a plunge in the general direction of the floor. "Sorry?"

"Oh Julie, surely you must realize your friend's rather odd facial attire is raising an awful lot of eyebrows, especially for those of us who frequent Paris," Monsieur Blanc said. "I just want to know, is he or is he not the man known as the Phantom of the Opera?"

"Monsieur Blanc, that's really a very odd..." she paused, faltering under his astute gaze. "Well... Yes, but he's not as he seems," she hastened to add at the rather stunned and terrified look on his face. "Yes, the Christine Daaé thing did happen, and yes, his record isn't exactly spotless, but he's changed so much."

M. Blanc's eyes were nearing the size of dinner plates. "Are you sure, though? How can you possibly know he's actually changed? Emotions can cloud one's judgment, cheri," he warned her, rubbing a gnarled, aging hand over her shoulder. "Especially love."

Juliet started. "Love, Monsieur?"

He gave her a significant look that spoke far louder than his rather soft voice. "I believe you know better than I what exactly that means," he said.

"Yes," she confessed. "I haven't let my love cloud my judgment, I promise you. He told me his life story before I made my decision whether or not to trust him. As you can see, I trust him. In fact, I trust Erik with my life. I have good reason to, he saved my life. I will never forget that as long as I live." She suddenly stopped, aware of her bold, blatant manner with the man who got her started in singing. "I'm sorry, I—"

He cut her off with a chuckle. "No need to apologize, ma biche. I see it in your eyes, you love your Erik more than you love your life. I believe you that he's changed, I would just caution you on one thing: don't let your love prevent you from seeing things as they are. Love can make you blind to outside events that may harm you if you ignore them."

Juliet felt tears of gratitude prick her eyes as she flung her arms around M. Blanc in a tight embrace. Finally, someone who understood. "Thank you," she whispered.

He patted her back softly. "Any time, cheri. Let's hear that prima donna-worthy voice of yours."

She took a deep breath, wiping her eyes with the pads of her fingers. "Okay." After a moment, she added, "Monsieur Blanc?"

"Yes, mademoiselle?"

"I'd like it very much if I didn't have to sing anything from Carmen, even though many of the songs are in my repertoire."

He blinked once in confusion. "I suppose, is there a particular reason?"

"That would be a spectacularly long story I would prefer not to tell."

About thirty minutes later, Juliet stepped out of the room feeling extremely satisfied with the audition she had just done. Some aspects of it were not perfect—she hadn't expected it to be flawless—but nevertheless, she was happy with how it had gone.

M. Blanc poked his head around the doorframe. "Come sing for me again sometime, yes? You've made excellent progress in the last few years! I'll let you know when the results are in."

"Thank you, Monsieur! I'll be sure to keep in touch," Juliet called. She wondered how Erik's classes were going. More than anything she wanted to go sit in on the lessons, but she didn't want to intrude and she had some errands she'd been ignoring all day.

With a sigh, she fluffed her fingertips through the back of her hair and pulled her cloak over her shoulders. The market was just exactly the last place she wanted to go right then. She'd never admit it to anyone, not out loud anyway, but she was still frightened of traveling in the open alone for any length of time.

She supposed she had a fairly good reason to be.

At the market, the back of her neck continuously prickled like someone was staring at her. There was obviously no one there when she stopped to look around, and she berated herself for being foolish. _You're being paranoid_, she told herself firmly. _It's not as though Gaston is going to come leaping out at you in a public place like this._

That thought did little to appease the pattering beat of her heart and in fact made the prospect of walking home alone just that much more unappealing. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she sighed out loud, leaning against the wall and rubbing an exasperated hand across her forehead. The sense of impending disaster still abounded.

"Juliet?" A voice materialized centimeters from her ear, causing her to jump, clutching at her heart and bags of groceries. "I didn't mean to frighten you, I'm sorry." It was Tristan. She liked him well enough, but she wasn't in the mood for a long, most likely pointless, conversation.

"It's all right, Tristan," she said, hoping she could manage to sneak away before too long. "I'm just feeling a touch jumpy today."

"I was going to ask you about that," he said. "You look rather pale, you're certain you feel all right?"

She smiled reassuringly. "I'm perfectly fine, I think today is just a bit of an off day for me. I suspect it's because I'm so busy today. Speaking of which, if you'll excuse me..." she trailed off meaningfully, glancing at the exit discreetly. His buoyant behavior dropped just a fraction.

"Of course, I'm sorry for keeping you," he said. "Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow?"

She winced internally, sincerely hoping it wouldn't happen. "Perhaps. Have a nice day." She sped out the door, sighing in relief only when she was back home.

Something had to be done about Tristan. Juliet suspected his intentions weren't all in the name of friendship.

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Meg hitched at the straps on her purse, tugging them further up her arm. She had just been to the store to buy some sewing supplies for her mother, who was fixing up some costumes with holes in various places from the wear and tear of dancing. As ever, her neck prickled and she looked behind her, expecting to see nothing.

She definitely saw something.

A carriage was barreling in her direction, seemingly out of control. A shriek tore from her lips as she tried to dive out of the way, the image of a spooked horse filling her vision entirely. She wouldn't make it, it was going to hit her.

Suddenly, a hand yanked her out of the way, a strong arm holding her tightly with her face against his bicep. She looked up to see a man with swarthy skin and a thinly muscular build. He was reining the horse in with the other hand, speaking sternly to the driver. There seemed to be something staged and false about him.

"We don't want to hurt any pretty ladies, do we Monsieur?" the man asked. "Be a little more careful, keep your animal in control."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Meg gasped, trying to calm her wild pulse. "I think I might be—" She was suddenly rather drowsy. Through hazy senses, she realized just how sickly sweet the man's arm smelled. No. She tried to struggle out of his arm, but he was too strong for her. He had drugged her.

"Bit premature for thanks, don't you think, mademoiselle?" he sneered. "Don't fret, a friend of mine just wants some questions answered and we were told you were the best one to ask." Through ears that felt like she'd been shoved underwater, she heard him say in a louder voice, "Oh dear, I believe she's fainted from too much excitement. Could I trouble you to drive us to the doctor? It would be the least you could do, nearly running her over and all."

She was dimly aware of being hefted into the carriage like a sack of potatoes. "Stop," she slurred, her tongue far too fat and heavy for her mouth.

"Why would I do that, mademoiselle? I'm just doing my job, after all. I got paid quite handsomely for this job. I'm certainly not going to jeopardize that. I think you look awfully tired. You should rest." He pressed his sleeve to her mouth and nose again, more harshly this time.

Meg fought against the effects of the chloroform, but it was too much. Slowly, she sank down against the seat, drifting into a place where there was no sound or light.

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Back at her house, Antoinette Giry began to worry when her daughter failed to return after an hour. What had happened to her?

Settling her hat firmly on her head, she went to Nadir Khan's flat and knocked briskly. He opened the door with his coat on already, looking like he was on his way out the door. His brows were tightly knitted in a worried frown. "Have you heard?" he asked urgently, eyes filled with what looked suspiciously like pity. Antoinette's heart kicked up a couple notches.

"Heard what?" she inquired, hand wrapped tightly around Nadir's muscular forearm. "What's happened?"

He lowered his eyes as though he couldn't bear to meet her gaze as he delivered the news. "Meg's been kidnapped." His voice was barely audible.

Antoinette's world came to a screeching halt in that moment.

**A/N: Oh dear. Return of the cliffhanger! **

**Review? :3**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Nothing much to say on this end, except for the fact that I felt incredibly sorry for Meg Giry whilst writing this chapter. I'm really horrible to the characters sometimes, aren't I?**

Meg blinked blearily, the world slowly swimming back into focus. Suddenly, she remembered recent events and her eyes snapped open, straining against the inky blackness of wherever she was. _Mon dieu, where am I? _She thought, struggling to make her chloroform-impaired mind work properly.

She had been captured, she knew that much. But by who? And why? As far as she could tell, no one had any serious vendetta against her, or a vendetta at all for that matter. So why on Earth... _oh._ She shut her eyes tightly and a long sigh of despair rushed from the very core of her being. Gaston Rosseau must have garnered the information—not from Nadir, she knew, so probably from recollections of interactions at the Opera Populaire—that Juliet and Meg were good friends. That would make her an excellent source of information to him if she talked. Unfortunately, she had little doubt he held the power to make her do so.

But who was the man who drugged her? She hadn't recognized him in the least, but it was clear to her now that he was in some way affiliated with the singer gone nearly mad. His voice had been strange, an odd accent she couldn't place. He also sounded a little bit uneducated, like a... _Oh, no. _If her assumption was correct—Meg really hoped it wasn't—the man was most likely a gypsy. Some gypsies were known for being mercenaries for just about any trade one would care to mention. If one had a sum of money to offer, one could usually find a gypsy to help them out. _Especially _if said job leaned slightly in the direction of the sinister. Meg's situation corresponded well with that description.

Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dark room. It looked like an old sitting room with a heavy dust layer over every surface and the floor. The furniture looked ancient and in none too excellent condition. Rips and tears were scattered across the upholstery. None of it looked to be of any significance in the way all of the various trinkets were hastily cluttered and knocked over. The mess was recent, judging by the displaced dust.

Meg wondered for a fleeting instant if she was just dreaming and had landed in some sort of mystery novel her mind had created. Or rather, she hoped that was all that happened.

In her heart, she knew it could only be Gaston who ordered her capture. He was the only person who could possibly want some sort of information from her. Footsteps approached the closed door to her right and she prepared herself mentally, calming her rapid heartbeat and locking down the fear dominating her mind. She would not say anything that would endanger her friend. Nothing.

The door creaked open and Meg drew herself up as far as she could from her bound position on the floor, staring in the approximate direction of the shadowy figure's face. Her gaze was proud, unflinching. The figure—Gaston, probably—struck a match and began to light the various candles in the room. Of course he wasn't going to open the curtains, not while he held her hostage.

When the room was dimly lit the man, who was indeed Gaston, made his way over and crouched in front of her. His vibrant blue eyes glittered threateningly. "Mademoiselle Giry it's been far too long, don't you think?" he asked sweetly. Sweet like poisoned honey.

"Not nearly long enough," she hissed. "What's all this for? If you fancied a chat, you could've stopped by. There was no cause for all of this." She purposefully played naive.

Gaston chuckled, a truly awful sound, and caressed her cheek smoothly. She flushed and moved her head away as far as she could. "Oh my pretty mademoiselle, I think you know what I would like to talk to you about. It requires a bit more... perhaps I'm searching for the word _secrecy_. Now," he murmured, the sweetness draining out of his voice like water out of a leaky glass, "I'd be _ever_ so grateful if you'd tell me where the Opera Ghost has taken Juliet."

"Why?" Meg asked, in part because she was stalling and also because she wanted to know just how much hell the pair was going to go through in the near future.

He gave her a mock-mournful look, adopting a sickeningly patronizing voice. "Come now, Meg. We can do this the easy way, or we can make this exceedingly difficult for both of us. I'm sure you want to do it the easy way, don't you? Where are they?"

She pursed her lips tightly. If there was one thing she hated more than just about anything, it was being patronized. She knew she was small and had a propensity to be rather foolish at times, but the nickname that followed her around constantly, "Little Giry", was one she secretly despised. "Even if I knew, I would never tell you," she growled.

His eyes became sapphires, faceted and solid. "I'll not ask again before this takes a turn I can assure you will not be pleasant for you," he said harshly. "Where have they gone? You may just as well get it over with and tell me; I know you know and I _will _find out one way or another."

Meg gave him her darkest glare. "Go to hell!" she snapped. And then she did something she came to regret wholeheartedly in the near future. She spat in Gaston Rosseau's face.

For a moment, it appeared both of them were equally surprised by the bold act. Seconds later, Gaston's face contorted in an ugly snarl of disgust and he slapped her across the face so hard she could feel the shape of his hand tattooed in a burning outline on her left cheek. "Fine, so be it," he snarled, getting to his feet and stalking out the door. "We'll do it the hard way."

The door slammed shut and as the candle flames quivered, it looked to Meg like they were as scared as she was for what was to come.

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Juliet marked the page in the book Erik had loaned her at the sound of a knock on the door. A messenger boy stood at the door with a telegram clutched in his hands. He looked to be slightly out of breath.

"Telegram for someone with the last name Leroux," he panted. "Told it was top priority."

Juliet raised an eyebrow. She could think of no reason she or her father would receive a top priority telegram. "Thank you," she said, accepting the envelope and sliding a nail under the seal.

"Shall I wait for a response, ma'am?" the boy asked.

"No, thank you," she dismissed him, drawing the telegram out and unfolding it. Her blood ran ice cold in her veins.

_Meg kidnapped. Possibly Gaston. Do not come. ~Nadir._

Oh he—that sneaking bastard. He was using her friends now. She had to hand at least a little credit to him; he knew intricately how to get to a person. If he had Meg—and she didn't mean to insult her friend—then it was not a matter of _if_ he found them, but _when._

Her feet were still finding their way into her shoes when she ran out the door, slipping ungracefully and causing a few odd stares to be directed her way. She couldn't care any less. Her mind was set on getting to Erik's flat.

She rapped her closed fist against his door sharply. "Open the door, Erik. Hurry," she murmured, her free hand clutching nervously at the folds of her dress. Adrenaline made her skin clammy and her fingers twitchy. The few seconds it took Erik to answer the door felt like they stretched on for years of never-ending anxiety.

"Oh, Juliet, it's you?" Erik opened the door, a smile turning the corners of his mouth up. "With the way you were knocking, I could've sworn you were Nadir, if only for a moment." Juliet paled at those words, causing Erik's good-natured smirk to slide off his face rather rapidly. "What is it? Has something happened?" By something, he was referring to whether a certain crazy man had done anything.

Wordlessly, she handed the now-rumpled telegram over. She didn't trust herself to speak. He scanned it quickly, the color draining from his own face until the uncovered side nearly matched the mask in hue. His eyes slowly moved up from the fatal words to see her expression that bore extraordinary likeness to a frightened deer.

"It'll only be a matter of time now," she whispered, stepping inside and closing the door behind her firmly as though that act alone could keep Gaston from reaching either of them.

Erik set the paper down and pulled her into a protective embrace, resting his chin on the top of her head. "I know," he sighed heavily, one hand stroking slowly through her hair.

Juliet burrowed into his arms, breathing in his comforting scent of aftershave, ink, and paper. "What will we do?" she asked, a thick haze of fear settling in her thoughts.

He held her tighter in response, kissing the top of her head. "We'll be ready," he murmured, his tone daring the man to even try and get near the woman he held in his arms.

"I love you," Juliet whispered, realizing only after she said it that it was the first time such words had ever come from her mouth and wondering too late if she ought not to have said it. It had just tumbled out in the heat of the moment, but she meant it no less.

A miniscule twitch ran through the tips of Erik's fingers, but he made no move to move or turn away and hide. Instead, he drew back just far enough to touch his forehead to hers and rub his thumbs gently across her cheeks, right under her eyes. "I love you too," he said softly, his lips touching hers in a delicate kiss. She responded, her arms settling around his shoulders and fingers stroking through the silky hair at the nape of his neck.

She couldn't have been more terrified, but she also could not recall ever feeling happier.

_Let him come,_ she thought._ Let him bring all the tricks and weaponry he desires. I have all I need right here._

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Meg's heart, which had sunk in despair, leapt right back up past its' original spot and into her throat when the door opened again. This time, Gaston wasn't alone. With him was the man who had drugged her. An unpleasant sneer twisted his mouth when he crouched down next to her. "Mademoiselle Giry, did he not warn you to cooperate?" he inquired. When she said nothing, he continued, "that's such a shame, because now you have to deal with me."

She bit back a shriek of surprise when he hefted her into the air. He carried her like she weighed little more than a sack of flour, moving her over to a chair. She had no time to think before her arms and ankles were tied tightly to the legs of the chair. The rope was rough and abrasive against her skin, quickly rubbing it raw without much movement on her part.

"Meg, I'll give you one last chance to say this of your own free will before you regret your stubbornness," the gypsy man said in a faux-pleasant voice. "You know what this is, do you not?" He pulled a long object from behind his back and tipped her chin up firmly with it. She swallowed hard. It was a riding crop, and a nice one at that.

"Yes," she murmured, lowering her eyelids to avoid eye contact.

"So we move back to my inquiry. Where are the mademoiselle and the monster?"

Meg clenched her hands until her nails dug into the fragile skin of her palms. "Sorry, who?"

The gypsy man shook his head with a smirk, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "Wrong answer."

An involuntary gasp of pain escaped Meg's mouth when the crop whacked across her lower ribs. It was meant to spur a sedentary horse, not a human, and it burned with a deep, stinging pain. _Oh God, please let my resolve be strong, _Meg prayed, breathing deeply and slowly.

A second strike landed on her upper arm, more painfully and forcefully than the first. She bit down on her lip, screwing her eyes shut tightly.

"Has there been a change in your answer?"

Meg shook her head resolutely, a soft cry forced from her when the crop landed on bare skin for the first time. "Never," she hissed.

Meg had soon bitten a bleeding gash into her lip as the crop smacked ruthlessly into her skin again and again. The gypsy man favored striking her bare skin, raising welts and breaking skin. Blood trickled down her arms, ruining her dress. She'd given up trying to remain entirely silent, shrieking in pain in an attempt to keep her exclamations wordless.

"Mademoiselle Giry, you are far too stubborn for your own good," Gaston's voice came through a haze of pain. "I advise you just to tell us where the Opera Ghost is, before you do yourself some permanent damage."

"Before I... ah!" Her words were cut off by a choking cry as a result of another blow. "Before I do myself injury? Who is wielding the riding crop, me or your mercenary?"

"You know, Monsieur Rosseau, I do not believe this is going to produce answers," the gypsy man remarked conversationally. Meg was afraid of his tone. It was light, but intentionally so, covering up an underlying air of irritation and impatience. "Shall we try something else?"

Meg could see Gaston adopt a pensive look. She hated him. Hated them both. But especially that thrice damned singer. He made her stomach churn sickeningly just looking at him. He'd tried to kill a dear friend of her mother's-she didn't know Erik overly well-and more importantly, one of her best friends. It could nearly go without mentioning that he was arrogant, rude, and pretentious. Nearly.

"Yes, I believe we should try something else," he agreed, his tone almost lazy. He looked over to the pained, sweating young girl. "Any suggestions?"

"One," the gypsy man replied, whipping a knife from his belt and slicing the sleeve from her left arm, freeing it from the ropes at the same time. Meg hardly had time to blink. The knife, which was a bright silver color from tip of the blade to the end of the hilt. It was an unusual weapon and she might've been fascinated if she weren't practically hyperventilating in fear. "Yes, it's a strange blade, is it not? It was given to me by the kind Monsieur. He said it used to belong to his brother before he met his untimely end, it was the only thing he managed to salvage from the fire at the Opera Populaire."

Meg's heart stuttered in her breast. Philippe's knife. That was the one that he had stabbed Juliet with. "... I see," she managed to say, every inch of her skin burning. She was suddenly terribly afraid of why he'd sliced her sleeve off.

"Why so silent, mademoiselle? Are you afraid?" the lithe man leered.

"Not now, nor ever," Meg lied, lips white and thin. Her heart was stuttering in her chest erratically and the gypsy could feel it because his fingers were clenched around her slender wrist, hard enough to bruise.

"Really, how interesting," he said in a soft, sibilant voice. "Perhaps I can change your mind." He pulled her arm straight out, a hard, yanking motion that made her gasp. The blade of the knife hovered above her skin, creating a thin shadow. "Are you now?"

A long, high scream of pain ripped from Meg's lips when the sharp knife sliced through her skin with a blinding pain. It was not merely a line slashed, the mark was purposeful, the beginning of a pattern. He raised the weapon for a moment to allow the pain to resonate in her senses, to allow the sensation of droplets of blood trickling down her skin to register before he made the next cut.

Whatever her previous definition of pain was prior to this experience, it hardly compared. Her entire arm was on fire with an unquenchable flame. The pain was so strong it made her head spin dangerously, her vision spotting and swimming into an indistinguishable blur. A constant outpour of screaming left her throat raw, but it was nothing compared to the pain in her arm. The sharp tip of the blade sliced her skin open like it was no thicker than parchment paper.

Finally, he withdrew the now-scarlet blade and Meg drew heaving breaths, her cheeks wet with copious amounts of tears. "Your thoughts, mademoiselle?" His rough voice snuck into her ear boldly. She said nothing, feeling as though speech would not be possible. "No? Shall I start again?"

Only one new cut had been made before she cried out in a rough, hysterical way, "Please, please, no! No more, I'll..." Her voice broke. "I'll tell you."

Both men leaned in, disgustingly interested. "Well?" Gaston demanded. A quiet whisper issued from her lips, not able to be heard by either of them. "Speak up, idiot girl!"

"Normandy," she murmured, tears clinging to her lashes and reluctantly falling as though they didn't want to give the singer the satisfaction of seeing them."They're in Normandy."

"You have my thanks, mademoiselle," Gaston said, once again playing the French gentleman. "My humble apologies about the manner in which this information was obtained."

Meg hung her head, wanting nothing more than to die of shame. She'd betrayed them. _Juliet, please forgive me_, she thought. _I'm a terribly weak little fool_.

The gypsy began to remove her bonds, only to haul her roughly to her feet and maintain his hold on her. "Monsieur Rosseau, if we wish to make good time to our destination we ought to leave now."

Gaston checked his watch. "Yes, you're right. You don't mind escorting the mademoiselle, do you? I really should leave a note for a few people."

"No, not at all. We'll be waiting for you at the train station," he replied. Meg's blood seemed to turn to icy sludge in her veins. Perhaps she'd been delusional in thinking she'd be simply let go. He kept one arm firmly around her waist, the other clenching her arm that wasn't injured.

"Where are you taking me?" she muttered dumbly, woozy from the pain she'd endured.

"Normandy, of course," her captor replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Your... usefulness to us has not quite run its' course." He paused. "I have one stop to make on the way there, but it won't be too long. I'll bind your arm in the carriage, it would not do for you to get an infection, would it?"

How kind of him to worry. Meg felt a little flash of anger ripple through her. Once in the carriage, she braved a look at her arm. Tears flooded her vision yet again. There was a word on her arm, glistening scarlet.

_ Traître_.

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"Monsieur Nadir, are you quite sure we ought to return to your home?" Antoinette Giry's lips were set in a tight line of worry. "There are places we have not yet looked."

Nadir shook his head, feeling a sense of helplessness creeping around the edge of his consciousness. "We've been looking for hours, Madame. Both of us are nearly faint with exhaustion and hunger. A short rest won't make a horribly big difference."

Antoinette stopped and swung him around to face her with a sense of urgency. "To you, it might not," she said fiercely, her hands gripping his upper arms tightly. "But my daughter is my whole world, Monsieur. After my husband died, she was the one bright spot in my otherwise only black world. Often, she was the only reason I rose from my bed in the morning. And to think that anything may have happened to her..." A choked sob issued from her throat and her eyes became bright with unshed tears. "To think any harm may have come to her is unthinkable. Please, try to understand."

Nadir thought of Rookheeya and their beautiful son, Reza, and his throat became suddenly tight. Reza had been the rising and setting sun of his life partly because he was the last living tie he had to his dead wife. When he died, a part of Nadir died with him. "I do," he murmured quietly. "If we stop at my flat, I can pick up some portable food. I understand you want to keep looking, but you'll only be doing yourself—and your daughter—damage."

Antoinette slumped, her exhaustion becoming suddenly apparent. "Yes, you are right," she said, her voice quiet.

Back at his flat, Nadir brushed his house servant, Darius, aside with a quick excuse and darted into the kitchen to gather some dry food to be eaten while on the go. "Not now, Darius," he said. "I'll look at my mail later."

"But sir—"

"Really, I just don't have time," he said distractedly, waving an errant hand in the air. "It can wait."

"Sir, this letter was delivered by a man who said it was of importance to you," Darius protested. "I asked him his name and he told me you would know when you read the letter."

Nadir stopped in his tracks, a chill settling heavily on his skin like evening fog on a river. "Give it to me," he said softly, taking the hastily closed envelope and opening it so fast he sliced a cut in his finger. With a muttered curse, he unfolded the letter. A far louder and more colorful string of curses followed.

_Normandy. Dear me, M. Khan. Dear me. Three train tickets purchased, I do hope Mademoiselle Giry enjoys traveling._

The paper fluttered from his nerveless fingers and landed on the table. Antoinette came running into the room.

"What? What is it?" she asked urgently. When his eyes merely traveled in the direction of the dropped letter, she snatched it up and scanned it quickly. Her face rapidly drained of color and she swayed on the spot so much that Nadir gently guided her to a chair.

"That horrible, horrible man," she said feebly. "The train will have left by now and another train won't leave until at least midday tomorrow. What will we do?" She closed her eyes and began to pray silently.

Nadir still didn't understand how Christianity was supposed to work, but he did pray to Allah that no significant harm would come to Meg, Juliet, or Erik.

"I'm going to send a telegram to Erik and buy two tickets on the next train," he said firmly.

_Erik, please take care of Juliet and yourself. As you once told me, I believe your tedious health has become very dear to me._

**A/N: I just finished rereading Phantom. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend reading it.**

**Any good? Please review? And if you have any ideas for how you think something could possibly go, please tell me in either a review or a PM. I take all ideas into consideration.**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Oh my gosh, you guys. I'm so, so sorry. I meant to post this a week ago, when I got back from New Orleans. Dang it all. I wrote it on the bus going down there.**

**An idea for this chapter came from a critique done by **_**Shellbell-san.**_** Thanks so much! I love getting constructive criticism because I get so many good ideas from it, more often than not.**

Brishan stared out the window of the train blankly, his thoughts having no rhyme or reason. They formed little, disconnected fragments of nothing, tumbling around for a second or two and disappearing.

Slowly his gaze cycled around the compartment, resting here and there in an unfocused sort of way until they came to rest on the drawn, wan face of Meg Giry. She was huddled up against the side of the compartment as far away from either man as she could get. Her hand clutched tightly over the bandage covering the word inscribed into her arm. Dried tear tracks coated her cheeks and a few leftover tears sparkled in her eyes yet. Her vacant stare was that of a broken person numbed by pain and any multitude of other things. His breath caught slightly in his throat.

Good God, what had he done? She was probably no older than his youngest sister and looked a bit like her too. He'd broken her, snapped her innocence brutally in two when he'd tortured her like that. Even though it was no fault of hers, the word written in scarlet letters on her arm would be plaguing her with grief. A strong surge of regret flooded his body like he had stepped beneath a fast flowing waterfall.

He was no stranger to girls having their lives turned inside out and shattered. The younger sister he'd thought about before had looked at Brishan like the very sun and moon had risen and set within him. She was a sweet, quiet little girl, so different from the other rambunctious children in their family. Being so much older than her, he had had a chance to get his head on mostly straight by the time she was born. Maybe that was why she was drawn to him so. He'd adored her and spent nearly every moment trying to make her laugh, a pretty, bell-like tinkle that made him smile just to hear it.

She had been so good and innocent, but like any other thing, that came to an end. Gypsy boys were known for many things, subtlety not being one of them, but a fondness for girls and alcohol were two things they could be notorious for. One night there had been a party and the beer flowed freely the whole night. As a result, many people were either ripping drunk and staggering about or passed out over the nearest available surface. His sister had managed to avoid the worst of the party by hiding in a friend's tent, but the parents made it clear she was not welcome to stay the night. So, she began the walk home.

On her way there, she ran into Brishan and two of his friends. Brishan was in a foggy haze of booze that hardly permitted him to stand up straight, but the other two were in the raucous throes of intoxication that made one feel as though one owned the world and everything must bend to one's will. And woebegone were those who did not.

"Out by yourself so late at night?" they'd slurred at her, leering in a twisted way. "You really shouldn't do that, someone could take advantage of that pretty little body." Their hands reached for her, grabbing at her chest and skirt, pulling her far too close, close enough to smell the foul beer on their breath.

"Brishan!" she'd cried over and over. "Brishan, help me, _please!_ Don't let them do this!" But the young gypsy boy could not think sufficiently well enough to intercede. He watched in a dazed stupor as the other boys pulled his screaming sister away, unable to lift even one inebriated finger to stop them from tugging her innocence out of her weak hands forcefully and without so much as a by-your-leave.

The next morning, fighting through a terrible hangover, Brishan ran through the camp yelling for his sister. Terror flashed through his mind as he searched wildly for her. At the edge of the camp he found her wandering aimlessly, her eyes glassy and her dress ripped in telling places. With a cry of distress, he'd taken her into his arms and held her tightly, whispering a thousand apologies in her ear. She remained despondent, hanging limply in his embrace.

No matter how many times he tried to gently cajole what had happened out of her, she would not speak of it, her now weak and fragile sounding voice quickly changing the subject to something completely unrelated. Unfortunately, word traveled faster than the blink of an eye and soon he was hearing a clearly edited version of what had taken place that night. Apparently, the general consensus stated that his beautiful, naive sister had presented herself to the two young men and asked for the... attention she received. Brishan may not have had all that much education, but he had certainly not been born mere hours before. He knew when a woman's clothes were so vandalized and she refused to speak of what had happened, a man—or in that terrible case, two men—had taken advantage of her.

She grew sad and distant, hardly speaking to anyone. And then, perhaps a month after the incident, Brishan woke one morning to find her gone, vanished without a trace. She had up and run away to escape the shameful, false reputation the community had garnered for her.

Well, almost without a trace.

While frantically searching her room for some indication as to where she had gone, he found a small envelope addressed to him in her handwriting. Instead of giving him an idea of where she was, the note simply said, Forget me, please. _I love you, my brother._

He never had forgotten, and never would.

He looked up, squared his shoulders, and stared Gaston Rosseau straight in the eye. "I'm done helping you," he announced boldly.

"_What?_"

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Madame Giry tapped her fingers up and down the armrest of her seat on the train nervously, her lips still in that tight white line of when she'd first read the note from Gaston. Nadir kept his concern hidden a little better, but in his mind he was pacing a hole in the floor. It seemed he couldn't make up his mind about who to worry about first. Juliet, Meg, Erik... Well, why not all of them at once? He was good at multitasking.

"We'll get her back, don't worry," he murmured to her, his fingers twisting around themselves, betraying his fear.

She nodded once, looking out the window as though she might spy the other train, miles and miles in front of them, carrying her daughter and a madman closer to Normandy with every minute. "I trust you, Monsieur Khan. Who I do not trust is Gaston, and it is he who holds my daughter s life in his hands."

"Gaston is crazy, no mistaking that," he said. "But, unfortunately, he is smart. Very smart. He knows the power of using a cared about person for ransom."

"He's using that knowledge to his fullest advantage," the ballet mistress acknowledged grimly. "He already employed it once before, beneath the Opera House. He failed that time and he will not be eager to do so again." He paused, remembering too late how tactless that might've sounded. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I did not mean—"

She cut him off with a flick of her wrist. "You were only stating the facts. It means we need to work that much harder. You have sent word to Erik and Juliet, I presume?"

"Of course," Nadir nodded, glad Antoinette was fairly good at keeping her head in a crisis. "They're both capable people, I'm sure they can handle themselves in this. And Erik won't let Gaston anywhere near Juliet." There was a mutually understood implied, _He'll kill him first._

"I know, and for that I'm grateful," she replied. "I just hope he won't do anything especially stupid and get himself fired into harm's way." There was yet another silent, implied thought. _In other words, I hope he doesn't go and get himself killed._

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It was Erik who received the telegram this time.

"May I help you?" he asked amiably, making no move to hide the mask. Enough people had seen him with Juliet to know he was simply the music teacher with the mask, not a cause for alarm.

The telegram delivery boy nodded, holding out a cream envelope for him to take. "Telegram for you, sir. From Paris, I think."

Erik snagged the edge of his composure and yanked it back by the tips of his fingers to avoid blanching in fright. "Yes, thank you," he murmured, accepting it with a hand he was trying valiantly not to allow to shake. "I will not need to send a response." He dismissed him with a single nod of his head, closing the door and leaning against it with a long sigh. He opened it quickly, like drawing a sliver from skin. The telegram was soon crumpled in his nervous hands.

_He knows. Meg is with him. He is coming. -NK_

He threw the envelope down with a choice swear word. He held nothing against Meg. Gaston would have surely employed methods of extracting information that would be nearly impossible to resist. Every moment from then on would be uncertain, tense, and filled with worry.

"Damn you, you bloody psychopath," he growled. "Damn the day you set foot in my theatre." He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and pulled his hat on his head, trying not to run and create a scene. Juliet. He had to get to Juliet and warn her, protect her. Gaston would not get her this time. He would sooner die than see that happen.

He reached the house and pounded on the door with a closed fist. To his dismay, it was André Leroux who answered the door. "What do you want?" he snapped in dry irritation. "We were having lunch, you are interrupting."

"If you'll pardon my bluntness, Monsieur Leroux," Erik said, his fingers twitching slightly in an attempt to remain calm, "I believe what I have to say is slightly more important than your midday meal."

The older man opened his mouth in outrage, but a sound in the entryway distracted him. Juliet appeared over his shoulder, a small frown creasing her otherwise unlined forehead. "Hello, Erik," she said. "What brings you here? Please, come in." She stressed the last two words, edging around her father to take Erik's hand.

"Bonjour, Juliet," he said, stepping into the entryway, sidestepping André. "This telegram is what brings me here." He handed her the paper, not daring to take her into his arms comfortingly when her face whitened and she swayed where she stood.

"Mon dieu," she whispered. "Why now? _Why_?"

"What have you said to my daughter?" André demanded in anger, stepping between them and putting a protective arm around his daughter. "You've upset her," he accused.

"If you would take but a moment to listen, Monsieur," Erik said, refusing to allow his low regard for the man to cloud his temper, "you will understand it was not me who upset her."

He lifted his chin, arms akimbo. "Very well. You have a minute."

"I'm sure Juliet has told you of the man, Gaston Rosseau, who has a vendetta against the both of us. This telegram was from a friend of mine informing me that, regrettably, M. Rosseau has discovered our whereabouts and is presumably on his way here." Erik bent his head, trying not to see the terrified look on his love's face.

He went a dark red hue of infuriation. "You've brought danger to her! Is there anything you have done but cause trouble?" he cried, throwing his hands up in the air.

Erik froze, looking anywhere but Juliet's face. "No, no I don't suppose there is," he murmured. Nothing he had ever done in his life had ever ended in anything but disaster.

Juliet looked at him acutely, probably guessing exactly what he was thinking. "Papa, if you will excuse us, Erik and I clearly have much to discuss." When it looked like he was going to protest, she said, "Papa, Erik saved my life once before. I am confident he could do it again if necessary."

With a stiff nod indicating he knew he couldn't stop the two even if he tried, he extended a hand in the direction of the sitting room, gave Erik an icy cold look, and disappeared up the stairs. Juliet took his hand with an apologetic squeeze and led him to sit down.

"Erik," Juliet whispered quietly, her fingers twisted tightly together. "I'm scared." For her to go as far as to admit her fright meant she was so scared she could hardly function properly.

He got up to sit beside her on the sofa, an arm wrapping around her waist gently. "I know, but it'll be okay. I promise you." She leaned into his arm. He felt his heart sink. As much as he wanted to protect her, he wasn't sure he could do an adequate job.

"I hope Meg is okay." Her arm wound around his shoulders. "And you, are you okay? I'm only partially referring to Gaston, you know." She looked up at him, a hint of her normal, see through a person like a pane of glass, personality shining through a little. "You've done at least one good thing in your life."

Erik scoffed, a disbelieving noise at the back of his throat. "And what would that be, mon amour?" She rolled her eyes at him, placing a hand on either side of his face.

"Well, for one thing, I wouldn't be here if not for you," she said. "And you teach music to a lot of children who are a lot happier because of it. I've heard their parents say they've never seen their children so enthused about practicing."

Erik felt a small smile fighting for space on his face. "In all fairness, Juliet, all of those things have happened recently. It's taken me a long time to even think about doing good."

She smirked at him. "I must be a good influence, then," she said, stealing a quick kiss. "But I think you've a lot more good in you than you think, mon ange."

"A very good influence," he affirmed. "I'm sorry to change the subject, but we do need to speak about what should happen now. Because, as you know..." He trailed off, not desiring to bring Gaston up again.

"I know," she sighed. "We'll have to be on alert. I assume Nadir and Madame Giry are on the way?"

He nodded. "It would make sense."

"Gaston and Meg will get here first, but they'll get there soon after and we can have four minds working together," Juliet said.

Erik held her more tightly against his chest. "But Gaston will have been here for nearly a day by then. He may not be mentally balanced, but he is highly intelligent and very resourceful. I fear he may act before then." Even if they had two more people helping them, he wasn't sure they could be entirely safe.

She threaded her fingers through his decisively. "Then we'll be ready."

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"What?" Gaston repeated, staring at Brishan incredulously. He allowed his shoulders to rise and fall carelessly. "What do you mean, you're done helping me?"

"I mean I'm done, Rosseau. You heard me," he said slowly, like he was speaking to a child. "You want revenge, fine. I can see that. I don't care for the Devil's Child any more than you do. But for God's sake, man! Do you see this girl?" He gestured angrily to Meg, who was looking at him with a combination of distrust and surprise. "I don't know what sort of a demon was possessing my brain that allowed me to agree to hurting her like that. Why would you want to do that? Do you see her? I can only hope she will forgive me for the pain I've caused her. If she does not, I cannot say I would blame her."

"If you've forgotten, I hired you for this." Gaston's voice was a low, menacing purr.

"Yes, and I am my own employer," Brishan shot back. "I decide my own terms of work, and I don't believe I like the terms of service in this particular job. So I retract my services. I'll give you the letter bearing my signature so you can get the help you need from my family, but that's as far as I go. And since I was the one to get the information from Miss Giry, I'm taking her with me. I'll return her to her mother. We've done quite enough damage to her." Meg's blue eyes stared up at him, the first glimmer of hope sparkling from within their depths.

"I can afford to let you go, but the young mademoiselle stays with me," the singer's eyes simmered dangerously. Meg, seeing and hearing this, wilted back against the side of the train, fear streaking its way across her face once again. His face dared the gypsy man to challenge him.

"Why? You've got no more use for her," Brishan said adamantly.

Gaston rolled his eyes like he thought he was being exceedingly thick. "I've still got to get the Opera Ghost, haven't I? And I can't do that without a bargain of some sort."

Brishan threw his hands in the air with disgust. "You're obsessed! Why are you letting this man take over your life?"

An ugly snarl distorted Gaston's face. "I'll tell you why. He killed my brother and my closest friend. He also corrupted the mind of a woman I thought I could marry if she loved me."

"You've told me all of this before," he said. "Didn't you tell me you also had the chance at revenge? Perhaps that is fate telling you it is not meant to be."

Gaston looked positively murderous. "Do not tell me what my fate is," he hissed. "I have known it since my brother was found hanging from the rafters of the Opera Populaire. The girl stays with me. Unless of course, you would prefer she was, regrettably, injured still further than she is now. If this does not bother you, try to take her. Go ahead."

Brishan had a brief, intense struggle with himself. It was not worth the injury to her. At least if he left her with Gaston, there was a good chance he would leave her unharmed until an exchange could be made. "... Mademoiselle Giry, I hope you can forgive me for leaving you with this madman. You do not deserve to feel any more pain." He gave her his most apologetic look, not daring to touch her and possibly frighten her. "And you," he snapped, rising to his feet and looking down at the still-unimpressed man, "you are still nothing more than an overindulged _schoolboy_. If the Devil's Child must kill again, I can only hope you are the next victim." He strode out of the compartment. He would be staying in another part of the train for the duration of the ride.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

One day later, quite late at night and under the cloak of blackness, Gaston, Meg, and Brishan arrived in Normandy. Brishan stalked icily off and vanished into the inky darkness. Gaston clutched Meg's arm tightly. Under threat of further harm, he had managed to get Meg to tell him the address of Juliet's father. At that point though, he wasn't looking to get the onetime prima donna back. Not yet, anyway. He was much more interested in finding out where the Opera Ghost was residing.

"Hurry up," he barked, yanking on the girl's arm sharply. She let out a quiet cry of pain.

Once at the house, he situated Meg with her hood over her face with stern instructions not to say a word. He was banking on M. Leroux answering the door. Juliet would, hopefully, be in bed or out for the night. Thankfully, it was the older man who answered.

"May I help you?" he inquired, pressing a fist into the small of his back.

Gaston adopted a well-meaning, innocent countenance. "Yes, I was wondering if this was the residence of mademoiselle Juliet Leroux?"

He nodded. "It is. I am her father. She is out tonight, however."

The singer arranged his features in an expression of disappointment. "Oh dear," he said. "There is a question I'd have liked to ask her. I suppose I'll have to come back in the morning."

Monsieur Leroux hesitated. "If you'd like, I can take a message and tell her when she returns."

Gaston smiled easily. "Oh, would you? Merci, Monsieur. Could you ask her if she knows where Erik lives?" He forced the name he remembered Juliet calling the monster by out of his mouth. "He's a mutual friend." He could hear the truth stretching so far it was splintering.

The man suddenly looked as though he had bitten into a lemon. "Ah yes... I could tell you now, if you've got a moment."

Gaston fought down a grin of satisfaction. This was working better than he could have hoped. "Could you? Thank you ever so much."

Monsieur Leroux imparted the address to him and the two left, Gaston dragging Meg behind her as though she were a rag doll. "Come on, move," he growled. "We aren't done tonight."

He looked at the coordinates on the letter, walking quickly in the dim lights with one hand still on the girl's arm. The gypsies were about a mile away from the outskirts of Normandy. He hailed a cab quickly and ordered it to go about a half mile away from the camp.

The cab driver looked at him as though he'd gone quite mad. "You're sure, Monsieur? Hardly anyone goes there in daylight, let alone at night."

"Of course I'm sure," Gaston said imperiously, in a tone which discouraged further discussion on the matter.

When they were dropped off, they made fast tracks to the camp until they reached the edge of it. Gaston stationed Meg on the farthest outreach of the borders with the orders not to move an inch from that spot. However, he only got a few steps from where she was before a group of opulently, yet raggedly dressed people appeared out of seemingly nowhere and had him held in a tight grip, a knife pressed beneath his chin, exactly above his jugular vein.

"Well well, what have we here?" An older woman cackled. "Who's this rich boy? Does he think he can just waltz in our camp when he chooses?"

"Of course he does," a man with long, greasy brown hair sneered. "He thinks we'll just hand him our money on a silver platter, just like his whole life was."

"No, no," Gaston hastily attempted to placate the angry people. "My good people, I am not trying to rob you, and I give you my word on that."

An older man gave a humorless laugh. "He talks even more richly than his clothes suggest. Educated by the finest tutors were you, my fine young sir?" The last three words were laced with sarcasm thick enough to be heard a thousand miles away.

He fished rapidly in his pockets, looking for the letter Brishan had given him. "I bring a letter from a man I'm sure you're all familiar with. His name is Brishan."

Gasps echoed around the group and Gaston felt the blade make a small nick on the skin of his neck. The letter was snatched out of his hand and he flinched, feeling his pulse kick up a few notches. "How did you come across my son?" The older woman from before hissed. "He is supposed to be in hiding right now."

"I met him in Paris, he offered to help me with something, but he was forced to leave and move locations," he panted, sweat beading on his forehead.

The woman ripped the envelope open and scanned the letter rapidly. Gaston watched her eyes whiz back and forth across the paper. Soon, she looked up. "This is my son's handwriting. He says you know how to find the Devil's Child?" Her voice lowered to a hushed whisper.

"Yes, and I can help you get the revenge you seek," he affirmed, feeling like the conversation had at last turned in a favorable direction. "You see, I have a few scores of my own to settle with him."

"He killed my brother as a young child, and heaven only knows how many more lives he's taken since then," she spat venomously.

"He murdered my brother and one of my dearest friends," he said, feeling the knife lower from his throat. The death grips on his arms loosened.

"He's crazy, an absolute terror," the old man growled.

"Which is why I would like to get revenge on him," Gaston was eager to get to the real meat of the plan. "And I know you do as well. But, as you know, he is very cunning and resourceful. I don't believe I can do it by myself. I know where he is, I can take you to him and then you may pay him back in kind as you will."

"When we finish with him, he will be begging for death," Brishan's mother snarled. "And I will be more than happy to grant it to him."

**A/N: Review? :)**

**Also, my sister (wholocked12) and I are working on a Sherlock collaboration. (Is this considered self-promotion? … Yeah. Oops.) It's called "The Other Side of Love." Check it out? :)**


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